Disseverance
by E. M. Stevens
Summary: She never thought he'd actually let her quit. Pepper Potts meditates on life after Tony Stark. Tony/Pepper
1. Chapter 1

Her first week of unemployment was likely one of the worst weeks of her life.

(She begrudgingly allows her subconscious to admit that the weeks Tony was missing take precedent over the horrors of this particular week, but only just barely and she chooses not to dwell on it for any great measure of time.)

Her moods alternate wildly between absolute and all encompassing fury for her former boss and a pervasive melancholia. The anger feels good. She slams things down on countertops and end tables and calls her sister who listens patiently to her lay into every flaw Tony Stark has ever shown evidence and plenty of speculative and wildly outlandish accusations concerning his moral character past and present.

The sensation of melancholia is less preferable to rage. It savors strongly of bitterness and she's too young to be as jaded as she feels. Unfortunately for her, the fire that fueled her impassioned hatred of Tony Stark and anything related to him is slowly burning itself out and she spends more time listless, unhappy, and indulging in more doubtful ruminations.

Sometimes she cries a little, in the moments when the self doubt is strongest. She's bitterly ashamed of it and every tear down her face is in spite of herself. She'll never tell her sister, never tell anyone, because wouldn't that be something he'd just love? Pepper Potts in tears over Tony Stark.

Not today, she thinks as she wipes them roughly from her face.

Not ever again.

In the mirrored medicine cabinet over her sink she takes a long look at her face. She's never had the talent of beautiful tears. Some of the girls she's shooed from Tony's bed with fresh dry cleaning have managed the loveliest crocodile tears she's ever seen. Their pale long fingered hands resting disbelievingly against pouting lips and single crystalline tears sliding down sculpted cheeks. Each one a beautiful statue in their artificial sorrow. Pepper is red and swollen and scoop-shouldered, resting trembling arms against her white porcelain sink. The image of herself in contrast with the graceful women of her memory upsets her and splashes a little cold water against her fevered brow and turns from the mirror without a second glance.

The close of the first week finds reluctantly venturing from the safety of her apartment to the grocery store her in dirty sweatpants and a tank top, hair disheveled and unkempt, not a hint of makeup gracing her fair and freckled face.

Emotion has wearied her and her normally pale complexion is more sallow and translucent that glowing and porcelain. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors of the freezer section, right in front of the Ben and Jerry's and that was all the wakeup call she'd could ever ask for.

This is not how her mother raised her.

This is not who she is.

* * *

Her second week of unemployment isn't as bad as the first. The disparity between the weaknesses has been indulging in for the last week and the inner strength and poise she knows she possesses is enough to motivate her to productivity. She catches up on housework, schedules lunch with her sister that she knows won't have to be rescheduled. She transplants her houseplants, starts an herb garden in her kitchen window and learns to cook a very fine risotto.

She keeps the lunch date which is a seemingly inexhaustible source of amazement for her poor sister who has put up with the scheduling whims of an eccentric billionaire for far too long, in Pepper's estimation.

It's very good to see her sister, and she's very careful not to bring up the previous week's primary conversational topic, instead choosing lighter subject matter. She sees her sisters raised eyebrows, but distracts her easily enough with questions about her young niece and brother-in-law.

She comes to realize that time has done more than physically separate them; she doesn't have very much in common with her sister and by the end of the lunch they have exhausted all possible conversational topics they could share common ground on. Her sister has a family.

Pepper has—well—Pepper isn't exactly sure what she has anymore. In the past she might have mentioned her exciting job as personal assistant to one of world's most fascinating minds, frequent world travel and a reputation of extreme professionalism and competence. She's been complimented in the past by random colleagues on her ability to maintain a professional demeanor in the face of such… temptation.

But that's all over now. She can no longer cite job, travel or professionalism amongst her possessions. As she watches her sister walk away from the restaurant, back to her life and her family, she realizes in addition to her other recent losses; she doesn't really have any friends either.

So she joins a local jogging club and finds herself running more mornings than not. The people she runs with are genuine and effervescent, receiving enough sunshine and endorphins to maintain bizarrely consistent levels of happiness and social grace that she is unaccustomed to. She's unprepared for the lack of sarcasm in her conversations, but over the span of a month she learns to adjust to the lack of subtlety in small talk and joins a few of the other women her age for breakfast after their run on a regular basis.

Her new friends are exactly the type she'd never have envisioned herself getting along with: pampered Malibu housewives who've never had a day of work in their lives. Pepper, who worked and scraped for everything she's ever gotten is tempted to be repulsed by their easy extravagance and carefree leisure, but she finds them shockingly self aware and delightfully funny and she begins to very much enjoy their company. They think she's charming and naïve and whisk her off to expensive facials, hair stylists with exotic accents and appointment only shopping trips, determined to transform professionally demure little Pepper Potts into the breathtakingly lovely ingénue they are convinced resides somewhere beneath her conservative button up blouses and monochrome wardrobe. It's the shoes, they tell her laughingly. How can you have such fantastic taste in shoes, and not be just a little bit daring?

Her new friends make a significant improvement on the first and second weeks.

* * *

Her severance package from Stark industries was incredibly generous.

Too generous. (A little guilt, Tony, hmm?)

But regardless of the reason or motive, the bottom line is that she can live a quite comfortable life of leisure for about the next three or four years before it would become imperative that she re-enter the workforce. She doesn't think she'll make it that long without some sort of purpose in her life, despite the pleading protests of her new friends. We'll find you someone fabulous, they insist. You'll get married and never have to worry about anything ever again. Though Mr. Stark's final act of generosity

(and when she's feeling especially bitter and more than a little bit nasty she calls it his only act of generosity)

has set her up quite comfortably, it's nowhere near enough to keep up with the spending power of her new friends. She would indeed have to get married to keep up with them, but she always shakes her head and laughs at them when they attempt at matchmaking. Not for her, she insists and every handsome face displayed via Polaroid. But he'd be perfect for you, they whine.

And while this has been an excellent vacation after almost ten years of bending over backwards to cater to someone else's whim, she knows she's incapable of living with the same sort of careless irreverence for the world as her temporary comrades. It's a taste of the other side and that's all it will ever be: a taste. No one could begrudge her the vacation, excepting of course the man himself, but that's irrelevant.

It's irrelevant because it's been three whole months now. Three months since he came back with a bullet in his shoulder. Three months since the screaming, though in retrospect it was mostly her own voice echoing angrily throughout his cavernous workroom.

Three months since she threw part of his suit at him and three months since he said something to her that she's pretty sure she'll never forget (or forgive).

Three months since she said those fatal two little words.

"I quit."

It certainly wasn't the first time she'd had occasion to say them. Tony Stark was a man who'd given her plenty of opportunity in that department.

And perhaps it wasn't the first time she'd really meant them. She can think of at least one instance in recent memory where she really would have walked out on him. But he called her back to her own unique place at his side and she'd come, strangely honored by his unusual candor and frank, refreshing honesty.

But it was definitely the first time she'd ever acted on them. She won't kid herself, she expected him to call after her, to say something to stop her in one of those rare moments of utter honesty between them, no flirtations or sarcasm or games of any kind.

But he didn't say a word.

Not one word.

The silence was deafening with only the tattoo of her stilettos up the stairs to fill the empty space growing between them.

She didn't look back. She'd never wished for eyes in the back of her head more than that moment, viciously wishing to see some sign of regret on his famous face, but she held strong. So did he, she supposes. Both of them were stupid and stubborn and raring to prove a point.

It all feels rather hollow now. In retrospect, she wasn't sure exactly what point she was trying to prove. A small, but not so silent part of her insists that she still is very proud of him, proud of the direction that his life has taken, proud of the strength of his convictions. When she takes the trouble to admit it to herself, she finds herself admitting that he's the strong one of the two of them. She didn't feel strong or composed at the sight of bullet holes, or the deep black bruises, or the worst sight of all; seeing his blood on her hands after helping him out of his work room and into the safety of his bed. He never tells her where he's going, or when, and dismisses her pained inquires when he returns with a clever retort. 

Every time she hears him leave without a word, not knowing if he'll make it back, another little strain against her already taxed nerves. Pepper Potts is no stranger to high stress situations, but this is cruel and unusual punishment. She feels truly weak for the first time in her life, and it's terrible.

So without any warning, one cloudy afternoon in Malibu, Pepper Potts erupts. She is irrational and emotional and nothing of the image she has successfully presented to the world for the past nine years.

She can't say that the result wasn't what she expected because she hadn't been expecting anything. She hadn't even indented to say anything, more like couldn't help it. Words were pouring out of her faster than she could think about the ramifications of her self-righteous diatribe. But she wasn't prepared for what was said to her in return. The sting of his words followed her up the stairs, every angry click of her shoes against the floor replaying some hurtful comment or salacious barb he'd uttered. Her anger helped her gather her things, helped her open the door and helped her slam it behind her without pause. She'd spoken out of frustration and concern, but she'd left out of anger.

So she does whatever she can to fill all the places in her life that Tony Stark took up for nine years.

It's no small task.

* * *

The third month finds her taking plenty of long walks. She takes her time. She patronizes restaurants she's never been in before, but never had the time to visit before. She doesn't feel self conscious in the slightest about eating alone. She spends long hours sipping espresso in cafes and reading subpar translations of classic Russian literature that she buys at the used bookstore seven blocks west of her apartment complex.

She becomes strangely obsessed with food. Her diet makes quite the transformation under the leisurely influence of free time. The food she now eats isn't a hastily prepared piece of unbuttered toast. Or a microwaved lunch in carefully partitioned plastic sections, the glazed carrots rubbery and saccharine. Or even Tony's leftovers, cheekily presented to her in brown paper bags, white takeout boxes or tinfoil swans. True, her former employer dined at some of the finest restaurants across the globe, but the remnants Tony presents to her with his air of careless condescension are stone cold, half eaten, or worse: both.

But as she sits in a very fine restaurant of her own, conversation flowing as easily as the wine, eyes sparkling with merriment, a dinner is placed in front of her. The presentation is exquisite, the china fine 

and the smell intoxicating. The intimate lighting catches the highlights of her hair as she throws her head back in laughter, reflects off the gloss of her manicure as she clutches at the thin stem of her wine glass.

The steam rises in delicate, sensual tendrils from her plate, curling transparent fingers around her fork as it hovers above the meal. Pepper pauses to appreciate the significance of this moment.

A meal, not in part, but in full.

As her lips close over that first perfect bite, she by no means reflects on how much more this moment would have meant if he were sitting across from her. In the image she does not have in her mind he does not look at her tenderly, doesn't tease her until a hot blush reaches her delicate face, and most definitely doesn't lay his left hand across hers when their waiter is serving their dessert.

But luckily for Pepper Potts, this idle flight of fancy doesn't take her over the main course, so she is spared the sudden and encompassing sensation of hollowness. The food doesn't lose its sweetness on her tongue and the sense of triumph she feels as her teeth tap the metal of the fork in her mouth doesn't dissipate as easily as the steam rising from her meal.

If her companions notice her far off expression, they do not comment on it. If they perceive the sudden absence of color in her cheek, they don't send each other sidelong glances across the table. And if they should be so extraordinarily perceptive as to discern the loneliness behind her eyes, they don't make it the subject of their conversation the next day.

Thankfully for all parties involved, the moment that was not a moment passes. Dinner resumes unhindered. Pepper smiles, laughs and savors every bite. A well dressed man from a table full of men in expensive looking suits sends her a drink and she demurely accepts it. She considers the evening a total success, a triumph of the new and improved Pepper Potts, even though she'll never admit that she only reason she ever wanted a meal like that was because she wanted to share it with him.

When the door of her apartment clicks behind her it is by no means a good thing. She doesn't relish the silence because she had a few drinks at dinner and the solitude leaves her too much time to remember that it's been three months without Tony Stark and the alcohol inhibited enough to remember that she misses him desperately.

He told her once that he could make it a week without her. He's managed to prove that several times over, just how small her place in his life really was.

Despite all her feelings otherwise, she still keeps her tabs on him, still worries. She isn't sure if it's less because she isn't presented with the direct evidence of him in harm's way or more because it leaves room for her active and rather morbid imagination to fill in the blanks. She watches the news, clips the articles from the paper and prays. Despite everything she still cares about him. She's not sure that any amount of time or stupid things she's done or terrible things he's said will teach her how to not care about that man.

Three long months and not one phone call.

The longest three months of Pepper Pott's life.

* * *

Can you tell I can't write dialog? It's pretty obvious! I need constructive criticism here guys, I've been away from writing for a very long time. Very, very, very long time. I have only the vaguest notion of where this is going, so please suggest at your leisure. More chapters to come.

E. M. Stevens


	2. Chapter 2

Though her separation from her former place of complete and utter integration with the world of Tony Stark has changed the patterns of her daily life entirely, it would be false to imply that parts of his world hadn't followed her out. She's been hounded with press since Tony's omnipresent shadow of reporters and photographers noticed her absence at his right hand. She's been asked for interviews, magazine covers, and tell-all book deals. She's hard pressed to find anything remotely flattering about the offers, so she politely turns down every offer, (some less politely than others) and thinks nothing of it. If she vaguely entertains the idea of having a glamorous picture of herself on the cover of a magazine she never ever mentions it or gives an inch to the cajoling woman from Vogue whom she spends fifteen minutes on the phone with before convincing her she doesn't just need some time to think about it, she's really quite sure.

She thinks it was around the end of the second week that she receives a call from Colonel Rhodes. He left her two very confused messages in the first week which she does not return. They are brief and perfunctory, asking only that she return his call, as Col. Rhodes tends to be on answering machines. But perceptive Ms. Potts hears the bewilderment in his voice. From this she can deduct that he has noticed the absence of her presence and her vanity takes it a step further to imagine that the turbulent life of Tony Stark has utterly collapsed without her careful and precise micromanaging. She doesn't return them because she doesn't want to associate herself with anything that has ever been within a ten foot radius of that man, but by the second week she's bought herself some new running shoes and is just beginning to keep pace with the jogging club. It's time enough time and enough progress into herself transformation that she considers herself safe from embarrassing behavior that may be transmitted back to her former employer. She's not afraid to pick up the phone anymore. He's a busy man and it takes a little time and four calls to reschedule to arrange a lunch meeting though she insists a thousand times that it's really not necessary he insists.

It's awkward as all hell.

She's not sure what to talk about because there only common thread is Tony and that subject is as off limits as she can make it. She tries a hand at being charming, dresses very carefully in as casual and feminine a manner as possible and makes small talk as effectively as any pampered Malibu socialite. Manipulation is a skill carefully cultivated under the lengthy tutelage of Tony Stark. Her position as the personal assistant of a man who canceled more appointments than kept them meant she was always on her toes verbally; it's easier to reschedule for the seventh time if you can somehow convince them that it was their idea to move the meeting in the first place. Though James Rhodes is a different can of worms than the endless parade of irate, self important businessmen who've been canceled on four times in the last month, the basic skill set remains the same.

If Pepper Potts has anything to say about it Col. Rhodes will leave their luncheon with the impression that she is a vivacious and vibrant woman the equal impression that Tony Stark is the worst thing that ever happened to her.

And so he does.

An unspoken rule hovers between them as they argue over the check; neither of them make any half hearted attempts to schedule another event or outing, neither take the time or breath to waste on a "we should do this again some time," or even "I'll see you soon". They both know better than that. Pepper carefully and skillfully shot down every attempt her companion made to speak of her former employer and three bites in to the entree he gives up and lets Pepper direct the conversation to lighter fare.

Later, as she readies herself for dinner out with the girls, dressing with an eye for feminine detail to suit the tastes of her company she can't help but feel a little sad. Lunch with Rhodes felt like goodbye to the last unresolved aspect of her old life. She doesn't have time to feel nostalgic now, mascara brush perilously close to her eye, but she can't shake the sensation of the rest of her life stretching out in front of her, an endless landscape of unknowns.

She blinks twice and awakens from her revelry and wipes her cheek where the still wet mascara has brushed against her cheek and left a small dark mark.

* * *

For ten years, Pepper Potts has hovered on the edge of his line of sight.

Pepper Potts is a pragmatic woman. She keeps a mason jar full of spare change on her desk. He had personally ensured her salary was deeply overgenerous; but seemingly in direct defiance to every subtle (and not so subtle) encouragement he provided for her to indulge in a little extravagance (she'd earned it, he thinks) Pepper Potts kept a jar of spare change on her desk. She keeps every penny, every dime. It isn't even a fancy jar: it's a rinsed out spaghetti sauce jar with bits of the label still sticking to one side.

It was little details like this that gave him pause. Pepper Potts was all in the details.

It wasn't that he didn't want her (oh, how he wanted her) but there was always little things about her holding him back. Don't get him wrong, there is something very appealing to him about little Pepper Potts who goes toe to toe with him on a regular basis and won't give him an inch. She's strong, she's smart and she's capable and it's those qualities that make him wonder if he ever did want to stop dicking around with this playboy bullshit that she could keep up with him, hold his interest for say, the next fifty years or so. But she's Pepper with her manila file folders and spare change jar and they're just too different. She'll never loosen up and he'll never slow down. He's out every night of the week and she gets to bed early and—collates things. It's been the defining characteristic of their relationship for the better part of the last decade or so and it'll remain so indefinitely he thinks.

He is comfortable in patterns and content with the status quo until the night of the benefit for the firefighters family fund (the third annual, though he can't quite recall the first two).

Witnessing her in the backless blue gown was a turning point for him.

Pepper Potts was stiff in his mind, ramrod straight and never slouching in her crisp tailored office appropriate attire. Pepper Potts, with her teasing eyes and girlish smattering of freckles made her boundaries perfectly clear and though having respect for the fairer sex wasn't something he often indulged in, he respected her immensely. Enough to respect her painfully obvious boundaries and keep his wandering hands to himself. Most of the time, he admits to himself, though it's never anything more serious than a hand on her shoulder as he leans over her to see something on the screen of her laptop or his chronic compulsion (he's not entirely sure he can help it) to invade her personal space. He prefers to unhinge her with a clever innuendos and casual come-ons. They both know he's only half serious so it's never any surprise when she rolls her eyes, or exasperatedly waves a document in need of his signature in front of his face, or shoots back a scathing retort of her own.

But—that dress is nothing short of a revelation.

Seeing the deliciously un-straight curve of her bare back was something he wasn't expecting. Seeing Miss Potts like this, so unarmored, so soft, so—he's not sure if he has a word for it. He's not sure there is a word for it at all, because this is something entirely new, this is a virgin landscape to his eyes. Something about seeing her straight back curve makes him wonder if there isn't give in other unexpected areas. Hypothetically, for example alone: their relationship, with its friendly but firmly drawn lines. Perhaps a little bit of pressure in just the right spot and she could yield just as terrifically as the small of her back does against his bare hand as they dance.

But the moment is interrupted and perhaps it's only the revelation of Obadiah's betrayal that could have ever possibly distracted him from the much more interesting and delightful revelation that is Pepper Pott's naked back.

And maybe that whole being Ironman business is a bit distracting too, though it's unlikely that he'll ever admit it. He never really seems to have the time to follow through on the gesture that will be necessary to make the shrewd Miss Potts forget the sting of his abandonment on roof of the Disney concert hall, which she seems to feel quite acutely, to his utter bewilderment.

The subtext is in every look he gives her and he thinks it's safe to assume that she's on the same page as him, that she knows just as well as he does that it isn't a matter of if anymore, if they cross her careful professional boundaries and finally acknowledge what's been happening for longer than either of them could ever realize. It's a matter of when. Not if he'll ever kiss her, but when. The notion of when becomes a very intriguing to him and if he hadn't made a promise to a friend not to waste his life, he'd be very content to while away the days in sole pursuit of the notion of when. But the change that occurred in him in that cave in Afghanistan cannot be denied. The seed of idealism that was fostered by Yinsin has been growing within him, gaining momentum with every passing day and absorbs the majority of his waking thought.

So he lets Miss Potts stay on the back burner, content that adding a small distracting infatuation with her to the mountain of things left unsaid between them won't hurt anything. There are plenty of things he doesn't say to her and one more won't hurt for the time being.

For instance, he never tells her about being paralyzed.

He never sees the need to. What purpose could the divulgence of that particular weakness serve? He doesn't see how admitting to Pepper that of the three things racing through his mind as he watched Obadiah walk away with his arc reactor (number one being his concern for Stane's application of his prototype and number two being his concern that tiny pieces of shrapnel were now free to enter his atria septum unhindered) his preoccupation with her safety was what got him up off the couch, down the elevator and across the cold unforgiving cement of the garage. He knows in his heart he's right about all this. Isn't that what he told her? Well he knows something else too, something that he may have excluded from that first speech for reasons he can't really examine while desperately dragging his body across the floor. He knows in his heart of hearts that Pepper Potts being amongst the living is fundamental to his general existence.

Everything that happens after that is utter chaos and though it had seemed very important at the time to inform the beguiling Miss Potts of his garage floor realization, trying to save her and many other lives takes precedent over confessing something to her that he's not even sure he can put into words. He wouldn't say he forgot—that wouldn't be entirely accurate—but by the time he remembers it seems like the wrong time, followed by an endless precession of similarly wrong times.

Besides, she'd seemed none too keen on his not-so-subtle attempts to ensure her place at his side before that disastrous press conference. So maybe it hadn't been the best of ideas to make his secret identity not such a secret anymore, but he's ill accustomed to self restraint and the temptation of honesty was too great in the face of Christine Everhart's smug self righteousness.

The fire of purpose that grows within him daily is further fanned as the sharp taste of tragedy that settles on his tongue and as the reality of his own fallibility are brought into sharper focus.

The truth of the matter is he can't save everyone.

That truth sits in the pit of his stomach like a festering wound and drives him deep into a bottle more often than not.

So he hasn't really been thinking that much about Pepper. Can anyone blame him? He's a man who went from not having a care in the world to having aforementioned world on his shoulders overnight. And it's not like she gave him any warning before her rather spectacular little freak out.

He supposes it didn't really help that the suit had some pretty nasty looking, but entirely superficial damage. And he also supposes that the images on constant replay in his mind of the day's atrocities were unusually unpalatable and this did not contribute to his being in a very understanding state of mind when he came back to an irate personal assistant. He wishes even now that he could un-see them.

He feels betrayed by the accusations she hurls at him, her words seemingly making him out to be nothing more than a spoilt, attention starved little brat wanting to play dress up. So naturally, he says some rather unkind things in return. He doesn't like to dwell on the particulars, lest it distract him from his anger with the bitterness of regret.

She was supposed to be proud of him. She was supposed to worry, yes, but that impulse was supposed to be tempered by her pride in what he was doing, who he had become, the leaps and bounds he'd made after years of debauchery and waste. So she threatened him in the familiar way, though not under the familiar circumstances.

"I quit," she says.

Faced with the resolution reflected in her hard gaze, the straightness of her spine and the strength manifested in the set of her delicate shoulders, he did what any rational man would do when presented with the hardship of losing the one thing that ever meant anything to him.

He fired her.

He tries to justify the idea that he may prevent a loss by removing the thing he stood at risk of losing. But for all his equations and theorems and inexhaustibly active mind which pour over every possible scenario in quick succession, he cannot find the logic in this particular action.

He pouts. He turns the music up as loud as it can go as if taunting the specter of her presence to dare to turn it down. He insists to Rhodes that she started it, feeling childishly petulant for all his years and personal accomplishments as the younger man rolls his eyes. She did quit, he insists. Rhodes reminds him with dwindling patience that she's quit many times before without actually leaving. This is most certainly, however, the first time he's ever fired her.

He wants her to come back to him, not the other way around, wants her to apologize because he's not entirely certain he's actually done anything wrong. He spends the first week in seclusion in his workroom, making adjustments and repairs to the suit, scowling every time he catches a glimpse of the small scrape on his left gauntlet from where Miss Potts threw it at him with a force and enthusiasm he didn't know her slender arms possessed.

The more time without her, the more infuriated he becomes. Every upset caused by the lack of her presence, every file he can't find or piece of paper he doesn't sign because she's not there to remind him five times is her fault and is reason enough to hate her a little bit.

It takes him three long hours to find any record of his social security number and it annoys him to no end that he needs her so much so he sets out to need her as little as possible.

However, hiring a replacement for Pepper Potts proves to be no small challenge. He dismisses the most qualified applicants outright because the idea of anyone actually filling her four inch stilettos with any kind of competency frightens him a little and even though it's been two months of no Pepper he's still not ready to give up the idea she might return eventually. The compromise comes in the form of Melanie Porter whom he steals away from a lesser Stark Industries executive. She's utterly incompetent and in that sense, perfect for the position Tony Stark had sought to fill.

All of this being said, it's not as though he hasn't been keeping his eye on his former assistant. He supposes she's forgotten that he can track her from a small chip he had implanted in her blackberry because she hasn't had it removed it or tried to destroy the device. He has Jarvis keep track of her whereabouts at all times and the numbers she calls. He doesn't ask for particulars because even Tony Stark can spot the boundaries he's already crossed with this little invasion of privacy. He merely asks Jarvis to examine the compiled data and discern statistically whether or not based on the places she's been or people she's called whether or not she's attempted to seek alternate employ. He is satisfied once weekly when Jarvis smoothly announces that based on the data collected, it would seem Miss Potts has made no attempts at seeking an alternate position.

He imagines her cruelly, lost without him, sitting listlessly in her apartment with her buttons buttoned to the very last, starched collars nearly strangling her fair long neck, her hair back in tight coils, pinned in the severest fashion with nothing to do. Poor Miss Potts with her office supplies; white out and highlighters and manila file folders.

Poor Miss Potts with her freckles and her flushes and that little smile—her long elegant hands—

Pepper.

He buzzes the intercom.

"Mel, be a dear and bring me a scotch. Three fingers, no ice."

Nervous laughter crackles in his ears.

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

Though faced with the knowledge that she was in a position that she was professionally ill-equipped to handle on a daily basis, Melanie Porter remained unflappably upbeat to the point of borderline nausea. She was overweight without being obese and had a length of frizzy black curls she kept pinned to the back of her head in a lopsided configuration that looked to explode off the back of her skull at any second. She handles the phones, light filing and little else. She also laughs after everything he says, never wears heels and has all the natural grace of an elephant.

So even though she bothers him on a deep fundamental level, she's so perfectly not Pepper. He won't get rid of her because then he'd have to hire a real assistant and he's still not quite ready for that. And she just seems so incredibly grateful for the position that the idea of dismissing her and seeing her naïve little face crumble under the weight of the disappointment, her unevenly rouged cheeks trembling with sadness seems distasteful.

Of course, then there is the real reason Melanie Porter stood out from every other temp currently in employ for Stark Industries: she was the only amongst the entire group of potential candidates who listen bartender amongst her past work experience. What she lacks in skill and social grace, she makes up for with clumsy enthusiasm and the best martini he's ever had. And unlike Pepper, a willingness to actually make and serve said martini with complete and utter disregard for how many martinis he's consumed in the last two hours. In fact, she seems welcome for the familiar territory so she serves every drink with a smile and a high pitched giggle.

When the sounds of vague and distant thunder signal Miss Porter's graceless decent down the stairs, she brings his scotch with news of a visitor waiting upstairs.

"Col. James Rhodes—"

She pauses and squints at the lime green post-it stuck to the back of her hand.

"—is waiting in the room with the piano. I wasn't really sure if that was your living room or more of a sitting area or—"

"Just send him down, Mel."

She titters at the nickname.

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

He has a feeling she's going to muster the courage soon assume the familiarity of referring to him on a first name basis. He shudders at the thought.

"Tony."

He turns from the pretense of work and towards his friend.

"Rhodes, what can I do for you? Let's get you a drink shall we—what are you drinking these days anyway? Mel," he buzzes the intercom.

No response.

"Mel," he tries again. Rhodes clears his throat.

"Miss Porter, it's the green button. The big green one, the one you pushed mere moments ago when I asked you to bring me—"

"Sorry, Mr. Stark!" Her apology is accompanied by the usual nervous giggle.

"Can you bring our distinguished guest something befitting a gentleman of his stature? Perhaps a mohito?" He draws the last syllable out.

Giggling.

"Right away Mr. Stark."

Rhodes interrupts. "I didn't come here to drink."

"You never do. But Rhodey, it won't do to disappoint poor Miss Porter. She tries so very hard."

Rhodes picks up a piece of scrap from one of his work tables.

"I saw Pepper today."

By now Tony is used to the general admonishments of how he could have let her get away (she left, he always insists in tone that doesn't beg any further inquiries into the subject) but he wasn't actually prepared for the reality of her presence. Though the sensation is singular, it resembles in slight a sucker punch to the gut.

If Colonel Rhodes expects his friend to say anything he is sorely disappointed. Yet, from the sudden stiffness in his shoulders and the tick in his tightly clenched jaw, Rhodes knows that he's caught Tony's wandering attention and his friend is now listening with particular intent, though his face gives no indication of this.

"We had lunch," Rhodes tries again for a reaction.

"And?"

Rhodes sighs.

"It was good. She's good." A long pause while Rhodes contemplates the most delicate way to put what he wants to say.

"You should leave her alone."

"I am leaving her alone," Tony replies, indignantly. "If there is anything I am doing it is leaving her alone—wait—I guess that isn't entirely true. She's leaving me alone and all I am doing is having the civil decency to respect her wishes."

Tony's voice is tight and his syllables sharp and clipped. Bit still Rhodes pushes forward.

"However you need to say it, that's fine. Just leave it alone. Leave her alone. Stop acting like she's just going to walk back in here any second," his eyes flicker to the stairs. "Get a real assistant. Move on."

"I have no expectations regarding Miss Pott's return—"

"Oh, come off it."

Rhodes has nearly come to the end of his tether and though running in verbal circles is the usual order of the day with Tony Stark, he doesn't have his usual patience today.

"You let that poor girl live your life for years while you dicked around. She deserves this."

The stiff line of his friend's shoulders sags at this as he leans heavily on the surface of one of his many work stations, his back to Rhodes.

"You make it sound like I beat her."

The attempt at humor is uncharacteristically self deprecating and his tone now sounds more tired than defensive.

"It's good for both of you. You have to learn to live without her holding you up—and she's got to learn to live without your weight on her shoulders."

Rhodes sees himself out, neatly colliding with Tony's new assistant who slops a third of his mohito on his shoes. Exasperated, he leaves Miss Porter without a word, standing at the top of the stairs, her double chin wobbling fiercely.

He leaves Tony alone in his mansion with his billions and his joke of a personal assistant, alone with his thoughts, which is always a dangerous prospect.

So it can't really be any surprise when Tony stark is speeding down the highway an hour later on his way to intercept Pepper at a restaurant (location begrudgingly provided by Jarvis). He has no earthly idea what he's going to say to her or what he expects to happen when he gets there. He is overcome with the inescapable and undeniable urge to see her, repressed for three long months, the desire undiminished by time but rather exponentially increased. He doesn't know if they'll fight or if she'll come back or—he doesn't know. His brain is curiously silent, overpowered by the emotion of the moment until all that remains is instinct.

After all, he's ill accustomed to self restraint and even less accustomed to the idea of no.

Rhodey should have known better than to tell him no.

* * *

**Okay, so maybe it was not the best idea to write my first chapter the week after I graduated college only to be then faced with the dizzying notion of moving, job hunting and the peculiarity of the internet service in this area. In addition, this chapter was really hard to write! The first two drafts of this chapter had loads more in them but when I sat down to write nothing quite came out like I planned. **

**I promise the next chapter in the next couple of days if my stupid internet will allow it. I've already got allot of material written for it so things should be moving along allot faster now. All of the reviews were amazing! I really appreciated all the suggestions. I asked for honest critique and got exactly what I asked for and I can't be more grateful. It helps me as a writer and it helps you get a better story!  
**

**Much love and thanks for your patience,**

**E. M. Stevens**

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

He wishes he could have prepared himself somehow.

As it stood, he never made it out of the car, though his hand lay slack against the door handle it never once tensed with the serious intent of actually exiting. Almost as soon as he'd pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, she'd emerged from the restaurant as if beckoned somehow by his presence. She was surrounded by a gaggle of laughing women, who wobbled precariously tipsy on designer stilettos. A brunette with glossy red lips and manicure to mach takes hold of one of Pepper's pale slender forearms and leans to whisper something in her ear. Pepper dips her head back in laugher, the wealth of her strawberry blond hair flashing in the dulcet orange glow of the street light. The silken fabric of her dress flutters as the wind catches her short hem, revealing the briefest flash of the top of her stocking. He feels as though someone has just forcefully twisted the arc reactor out of his chest and he unconsciously ventures a hand to his chest, though his eyes don't stray from his former assistant.

They stand huddled together, rubbing bare arms and though he cannot catch the theme of their conversation, the music of her laughter catches him from his position across the street. Reserved little Pepper Potts has ditched her suit reserved pantsuits and monochromatic, office appropriate pencil skirts in favor of glistening bare shoulders and canary yellow silk which brushes against her skin just so as she moves or the slight breeze upsets the delicate fabric.

He's not even sure this is the girl he had in mind when he got in the car thirty minutes ago.

He doesn't know what to do with this girl because he's never met her before. The Pepper Potts he knew didn't totter drunkenly in red peep toe pumps (hot rod red?), she strode purposefully at his side in black stilettos, and clicked forcefully throughout his life as though she was born in heels. She doesn't laugh except for the barest smirk at something he's said in spite of herself or out of nervousness, unlike this girl who laughs from somewhere deep inside her, laughs so much that she has to brace herself amongst her friends, one arm slung around the shoulders of her red-lipped brunette friend and another on the shoulder of a petite bottle blond who couldn't come close to Pepper's height, even in five inch platforms with garish silver buckles.

It seems only the blink of an eye that he sees her there and half that time he's not entirely convinced it really is her, but some other girl with red hair and it's only that he hasn't seen her in three months that all red-headed girls are turning into Pepper, even if they don't act or dress like her at all.

But as the valet brings an expensive Cadillac around and a voluptuous platinum blond squeezes into the front seat, the valet holds the back door open for the rest of them who pile raucously into the expansive backseat, tittering, shouting and holding on whatever is closest for support. Pepper is the last to enter the vehicle and as she does she turns to the valet, smiles graciously and then is gone in a quick flash of yellow silk and slender ankle bound by the thin red strap of her shoe.

It's the smile she gives the valet that convinces him beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is indeed his Pepper. It echoes the conscientious and courteous personal assistant he'd run a pair of red lights to find tonight. He's seen that smile a thousand times before, though never directed at him. Pepper had the grace and courtesy of kindness, especially when presented with people in thankless service oriented positions. Pepper didn't belong in the plastic thoughtless world of the elite, but she navigated it seamlessly with a grace and poise he didn't often see. He is suddenly all admiration for this particular quality (there are other qualities he's also admiring at this particular moment, but most of them are more physical in nature and don't fit into his effulgent waxing about her more elegant traits).

It isn't just seeing a woman like this that unhinges him. He's seen plenty of women, peeled colorful silk from lithe bodies, had his share of stocking-clad legs wrapped around him. But this is Pepper and he can't wrap his mind around her wrapped in diaphanous yellow silk. His mind has a very dangerous tendency to continue with the theme and she's then wrapped around him (naked!) and the disparity of that particular image is too great from the normal way he thinks about Pepper Potts.

After the Cadillac disappears around the corner, Tony Stark lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. As this breath leaves him, so does the frantic energy, quickly deflating all the bravado that held his hands against the wheel and his foot on the accelerator. His shoulders slump against the wheel and he stares unseeingly at the point from which the car she was in disappeared.

The drive home is slow, even by average standards. When he arrives, he informs Jarvis to immediately discontinue all data gathering and processing from Miss Pott's blackberry. When he goes to pour himself a drink, he pauses, rethinks the glass and walks off with the bottle.

It's going to be a long night, he thinks.

Or a long lifetime.

You know, whatever. Either or.

* * *

Bent over awkwardly in her foyer, Pepper slips off her red shoes one at a time. Muted light from the living room window casts her shadow distorted on the wall.

It's been nice, she thinks, bare feet cold against the hardwood as she quietly traces the path to her bedroom. She won't bend the truth now that her perceptions have altered; the last three months have been more of a vacation than any she's ever had in her life. In spite of the fact that nothing had ever been handed to her the entirety of her life, she's never wasted much time on distain for the privileged; she doesn't begrudge them the silver spoons that blossomed slickly underneath their tongues the second they were born.

Working for Tony Stark has taught her that there isn't such a thing as one sided coin.

Though at first glance outward appearances would make you believe Tony Stark had everything anyone could possibly want, it was Pepper who, at seven years old, chased noisily after the ice cream truck and sat on the curb with her friends slurping loudly until the summer sun made short work of their hard earned prey and all were left to totter home, bellies too full for dinner, round cheeks and hands sticky sweet to give them away to their mothers.

Tony at the same age is trapped under cool blue fluorescents in windowless rooms, young and supple spine bent over equations and circuitry. His eyes are calculating and intense and his callous-less young fingers are covered in scabs, not from games and folly, but from the slick edges of metal and the sting of the soldering iron.

She may not have had clothes or furniture that wasn't hand me down or a bedroom that wasn't actually a walk-in closet. She may not have had the privilege of not working full time through college and the pressure of keeping her honor student status at the risk of losing her scholarships.

But if she had to choose between the hardships of her life and the privileges of his?

It's a question that doesn't even merit the barest moment for contemplation. She wouldn't trade places with Tony Stark for the world. No amount of money would tempt her to give up her sticky summer fingers, or her friends from college. Or her mother who lifted her up let her punch the dough down when she was making bread, her whole body smelling of warm yeast and flour. Or her father, who drove her to salty smelling beaches, rubbed her with foul smelling sunscreen and made her eat tuna fish sandwiches, ever so slightly crunchy from when she dropped it on the sandy edge of her towel.

Nostalgia takes a fierce, if brief hold of her and for a moment it is if she can still feel her mother's yeasty arms around her and feel the crunch of her father's tuna-fish sandwiches in her mouth (whole wheat bread, just the right amount of mayo, cut on the diagonal, no crusts, and absolutely no pickles).

No, she can't say that she understands how it is people envy Tony Stark.

She flips the light switch as she reaches the doorway of her room. Her rotund and long suffering tabby cat blinks at the light, but settles back into slumber at the foot of her bed. As she peels down her stockings the sensation of ending that overtook her after lunch creeps back up her throat and she sits down heavily on her bed, nylon balled tightly in one hand. She feels adrift and disconnected, severed from the entirety of her former life. Rhodes not being able to convince her to return was the final straw and feels like all the things she'd been secretly holding onto have been ripped from her in one fell swoop. She surmises that from what she knows of Tony Stark, his pride will prevent her from seeking her out after the severity of her outburst (if he hasn't already—she must have stung him more harshly than she could have ever meant) and her own pride prevents her from turning back to him with her tail tucked neatly between her legs to beg for her job back, beg for any small corner of his life to occupy, if only for the reason that by his side is where she is happiest.

And it's true, she was happiest if only to be near him, to be useful to him in some way. She admired him for his mind, shifting faster from problem to answer faster than she could ever comprehend the question.

Her sister, when she wanted to be cruel, told her she acted like his dog, always at his side no matter how many times he kicked her. But her sister doesn't really know and neither does anyone else.

But it's been three months and she's not really sure even she knows anymore, exactly what they were to each other. She's pretty sure she's never been closer with another person, and yet so far apart from them too.

When asked why she had stayed by his side in the past, she always cited her admiration of his unique mind, his easy brilliance. What she didn't say was that she'd never met anyone who had needed her so much. Her position as the older sister when her mother died made her accustomed and comfortable with need. Her father needed her, her sister needed her. If she'd ever really examined the situation she may have come upon the realization that she needed Tony as much if not more than he needed her.

Pepper sighs heavily, thin shoulders slumping ungracefully forward.

She doesn't have the energy to tell herself she has no regrets anymore. All she feels is regret. She feels regret when she gets up in the morning. She feels it at the grocery store, when she does her laundry, and when she repaints her living room a pale, yellow tinged spring green. She feels regret with every sharp slap of her shoe on the asphalt as she runs, a whole rhythm of regret, the vibration running the length of her body, rending her few remaining heartstrings.

She wanted more than just a place at his right hand, more than her perpetual position as his girl friday; she wanted him to realize how precious his life was to her. He made her feel helpless, which is not a sensation Pepper Potts enjoys. One might say that Pepper Potts has spent the whole of her life cultivating all the skills necessary skills that may prevent her from ever feeling helpless. The whole of her being is wired for being helpful.

Though she keeps herself busy, keeps her life moving as fast as she can to feel familiarity of the pace she's accustomed to, her tasks feel without purpose. Without purpose, Pepper cannot help but feel her life succumb to bitter atrophy. She pulls frustratedly at the zipper and the yellow dress pools to her feet, with only the barest whisper as it catches slightly at her hip. She hangs it up in her closet beside the sudden rainbow that has blossomed unbidden in her wardrobe, perhaps encouraged by her contemporaries, but made possible by the sudden liberal nature of her charge card. She runs one long fingered hand through them gently, watches the delicate fabric ripple like the surface of water, then pushes them roughly to the side to reveal the relics of wardrobe past.

She fingers the collar of one plain white button down shirt in contemplation and suddenly knows what she must do.

She pulls her blackberry from the clutch purse she abandoned on the bed.

"Deirdre, I need to ask a favor."

Her cat condescends to open one curious eye, but refrains from comment.

* * *

Three days later, pressed and polished, Pepper Potts finds herself at last in familiar territory.

Her new employer was a prematurely curmudgeonly man of fifty seven whose only fondness in life consisted of accumulation of wealth in unnecessary excess, efficiency, and his young bride Deidre. Deirdre need only employ a bat of her lashes, or a beseeching green-eyed gaze over the top of one creamy milk-white shoulder and her husband's brusque demeanor was instantly softened by obvious infatuation. Though Deidre's only fondness would outwardly appear to be manipulating her husband and having excuses to remove her credit card from the confines of her wallet, she once confessed to Pepper that she's very secretly in love with her husband, then proceeded to swear her to silence on the subject, specifically forbidding her from ever telling their other friends. "They'd never forgive me," she sighs with languidly one night over drinks, and it is all Pepper can do to withhold her laughter.

And thus, Pepper Potts is cast into employ for the husband of her good friend. Though her husband blusters and stomps around the office, Pepper can tell already that he's impressed by the effectiveness in the position she currently holds and she's quite certain that her duties will soon increase from merely sitting at the desk outside his office and answering his phone.

Life resumes for Pepper Potts. It is a careful and fragile amalgam of various shadows and mockeries and only imitates the life she had or wants in the palest fashion. But it is movement and the direction is forward so she contents herself with what she considers progress.

On the other side of Malibu things are different.

For Tony Stark, life has ground abruptly to a halt.

But unfortunately for this particular pair, it's not so big a city as they'd both like to think it is. And like it or not Pepper's new boss is quite a force in the business world (he'd have to be to keep up with Deidre's expensive whims) so this throws her into many of the same contacts she found herself with in the previous. She has to call the insipid Jenny Mathews from the Stark Industries PR division more often than she'd like, but other than that Pepper doesn't think much of it.

So naturally the only two people surprised when they met again two weeks later would be them.

* * *

**I am such a liar! I promised this chapter quickly and it comes late as ever.**

**My excuse, as follows:  
**

** I went to Oregon to visit some family for a few days and I tried my very hardest to get this chapter out before I left. Yeah, didn't happen. I did keep up my writing old school style (paper and pen, bitches) resolved to type it all out the second I returned. Naturally, the last day I'm there I get a strange and uncharacteristic case of reverse testosterone and tried to keep up with a bunch of guys on some ATVs my first time out going up some old logging trains on a mountain after a good rain and ended up with said ATV on top of me. Once they pulled it off me I kept going up the mountain, naturally, but they next day I found some really rather spectacular bruises and most forms of movement have been rather painful since.**

**But success! A chapter! Suggestions would be most welcome on this chapter, as I'm having a little bit of difficulty bridging the next chapter or two with the ending, which I've already written most of. I'd be ever so grateful. **

**Faithfully,**

**E.M. Stevens  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Her desk is set into an alcove in a wide carpeted hallway, right outside the door to her employers more expansive office on the seventh floor. She likes her work area; she has a classically fashioned oak desk in the mission style, cabinets, shelves and her own little espresso maker tucked into cabinet with antique brass fittings. Mr. Brennan has approved of her addition of a single silver picture frame with a black and white portrait of her mother, an umbrella plant in a little pot, though she hides her coin jar partially behind the corner of the flat screen monitor of her computer, he seems to like this addition the best and takes an awkward moment one slow Thursday afternoon to congratulate her on her frugality and reflect on the importance of constant economic vigilance.

The only other assistant whose desk resides in the hallway is a woman by the name of Yvonne McIntyre. Her desk is directly across from hers in a similar alcove. She is fifteen years older than Pepper, but well kept, impeccably groomed and provocatively dressed.

Pepper doesn't like her. It isn't so much that there is anything she really dislikes about her, it's just that there really isn't anything she can find to like about the infamous Yvonne McIntyre.

The skin on her face is a little too tight, her eyes a little too shrewd, and her sweaters a little too taut against her chest, which in and of itself seems to operate entirely independent from the rules of gravity. She assists Mr. Brennan's partner, Mr. Dobrovsky, and despite the fact that Pepper doesn't really care for her, Yvonne has decided that she likes Pepper and spends most of her idle time instructing her in the subtleties of inter-office gossip without the inconvenience of stopping to draw breath. They take their breaks in alternation, lest a phone of either of these important men go unanswered. Heaven forbid, Pepper thinks blithely.

Lately, Yvonne has been seeing a much younger man from marketing on the sly so she is blissfully absent during her lunch break. She usually perches like a bird on the corner of Pepper's desk and chatters as well as any mocking bird throughout her breaks. The last three days of Yvonne's conquest have been peaceful, though they do not spare her the details, lobbed across the hallway in a stage whisper in all their shocking vulgarity. She'd thought working for Tony so long there wouldn't be anything that could shock her. Clearly, she was mistaken.

As she flicks deftly through a filing cabinet, she reflects that everything isn't exactly as she wants it. She's a glorified answering machine and a dictaphone at best. As quickly as the thought runs through her tired mind, she forcefully replaces it with something more optimistic. It isn't perfect, but it's forward momentum. It's a foot in the door, she insists to herself. However, the more she works for Mr. Brennan, the less she finds to like about him. Though she has always prided herself on her professionalism, there was a sense of easy camaraderie between her and Tony Stark. She tries to tell herself that the only reason that she and Tony got along so well on a personal level was only that they'd known each other for such a long time. So she tries to be patient, but with the exception of the care he shows for his wife, Mr. Brennan is an exacting man, whose intense and unwavering dedication to perfection in all things borders on cruelty to those unfortunate enough to be given the task of implementing his standards in every aspect.

No, she knows that there was more to her and Tony than the comfort that time can lend. She'd been hiding grins at his particular brand of deeply inappropriate humor in the first week and teasing him playfully by the third.

"Virginia." She starts at the noise behind her. Though Mr. Brennan has allowed her the concession of occasionally referring to her on a first name basis (she doesn't dare assume the same familiarity) he utterly refuses to call her Pepper. She lets the file she was about to remove slide through her fingers and turns to face her boss.

Though no one has ever struck her, she can image the dazed and stunned sensation she is now experiencing must be similar. The file folders still in her hand slip from her slackened fingers and tumble to the floor in a soft rustling explosion of white paper. Though she is not looking at him and therefore cannot see it, she feels Mr. Brennan's stern brow draw tight and his thin lips almost disappearing in his disapproval at this embarrassment in front of a colleague.

The man standing next to Mr. Brennan is none other than Tony Stark, who isn't looking at either of them, but rather the piece of paper that has fallen in such a way as to almost cover his left shoe.

Oh God.

She crouches down instantly. It's an awkward motion and the only thought she manages to run through her brain is how much she regrets putting on a skirt this morning. It does however; allow her the sanctuary of casting her face downwards, effectively giving her the luxury of a moment to collect herself as well as the papers. Her hindsight helpfully informs her that in addition to not wearing a skirt, wearing her hair down might have also provided an excellent curtain so that employers both past and present will have a harder time detecting the shame of the moment that is written colorfully across her fine boned face.

Her hand stills and gives the barest tremble as she reaches for the final piece of paper, if only for a second, before she neatly plucks it off Tony's shoe.

She wasn't sure what she pictured of their eventual meeting, but she was pretty sure that even in the depths of her regret, she never pictured herself kneeling on the ground before the great Tony Stark and picking things off his shoes. She may as well be kissing his feet! The thought sends a sharp rush of shame through her and she feels her face flush anew.

Mr. Brennan's voice is thick with impatience, his gaze cool and neither of the men makes a move to help her gather the papers at her feet, though each for entirely different reasons.

"And this is one of my assistants, Virginia Potts. I believe she used to work for you, Stark. "

As she rises, papers messily clasped to her chest, she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders and looks ever inch like she's prepared for three things: a blindfold, a cigarette and the firing squad. Her eyes flicker at first at the sight of Mr. Brennan and his obvious displeasure at her agitated appearance, but lock on to Tony's and don't waver. She can make it through this. Sure, the one most important person in her life is suddenly in front of her after not speaking or seeing each for months. And sure the last time she saw him she yelled at him and threw something heavy at his head.

That was perfectly normal right?

His posture is relaxed, leaning against her desk and he has the audacity to even appear a little bored. She holds out one hand as though expecting to have it bitten off.

"Mr. Stark."

"Pepper," he drawls lazily, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, though it quickly slides away from her to follow the path of Yvonne McIntyre as she saunters down the hallway. Her hips normally roll provocatively when she walks, but the motion is a little more pronounced under the scrutiny of such a man. She graces him with an inviting look over one shoulder, and then is gone around the corner.

Pepper forces a smile.

"It's so nice to see you again, Sir." She punctuates the last syllable with unmistakable force and Mr. Brennan's eyes snap to her sharply.

"Likewise, Miss Potts."

It is at this point that he takes her outstretched hand to shake, and the shock of his bare hand against her, warm and slightly more calloused that she remembers, sends a quick jolt of adrenaline rushing through her. It is only then that Tony actually looks at her, though strangeness of the moment doesn't allow her to decipher the extraordinary expression on his face. They shake and separate and Pepper tries to wipe her hand against her skirt surreptitiously, to cease its distracting tingling. Try as she might she can't tear her eyes away from the sudden sight of him, her eyes long starved of his image and simply won't be denied this simple sustenance.

"I think you'll find yourself lucky to have her, Mr. Brennan. Miss Potts proved herself invaluable to Stark Industries on a number of occasions."

His tone becomes formal and he is standing straight now, his previously roving gaze now firmly locked on hers. She can barely comprehend the compliment (is it a compliment? Is he being sarcastic? She can't tell anymore), before Mr. Brennan has ushered Tony down the hallway and into his expansive office. She stares after them, a pale statue in his wake, but Tony Stark doesn't look back and the door shuts behind him with a soft click of the latch.

She rounds the corner of her desk and sits heavily in her standard issue office chair, papers and folders clutched still clasped tightly against her, her stiff fingers crumpling them irreparably. Her breath comes in audible rushes, her lungs pulling sharply and shallowly in quick succession.

What the hell was that?

* * *

It's been twenty minutes since Mr. Brennan last shut the door to his office and Pepper has been able to concentrate on little else but that door and its contents. He'd been none too pleased with her disheveled appearance in front of Tony and had briefly reappeared to let her know in no uncertain terms how he expected the utmost decorum and grace in all aspects of her position in the future. She starts at every noise that sounds like the creaking of a door knob or the rasp of the door jamb against the carpet. The wall between her workspace and the office seems paper thin suddenly. A thin drop of sweat trickles down her neck, despite the frigid blast of the air-conditioning vent almost directly above her.

She is still straightening out the papers as if by putting the papers in order it would put her thoughts in order too, when Yvonne pokes her head around the corner and makes a bee-line for Pepper's desk. She starts violently as Yvonne's hands slap loudly against the top of her desk. "Pepper, could you die? What did he say to you?"

For a moment, Pepper is puzzled.

"Who, Brennan? Oh, the same—"

"No!" Yvonne near screeches and leans farther over the desk. "Stark! Tony Stark!"

She rocks back on her heels, self satisfaction evident as if saying his name somehow conjured the same sensation she felt when she saw him. The question however becomes irreverent when she continues without pausing for Pepper to formulate a proper answer.

"To think, Tony Stark here!"

Pepper leans heavily on her desk, chin in one hand as she listens to Yvonne wax effulgent about the many charms of Mr. Stark. It looks like that poor young thing from marketing doesn't stand a chance. Her distracted mind allows a brief pang of sympathy. He seemed nice.

"Anyway, go ahead on your lunch. I want to be here when they come out. You've already had your turn; let me have a go at it."

Pepper would protest, but the older woman has already dug her bony fingers into Pepper's shoulders and is pushing her out of the chair and down the hallway. Pepper barely has time to snatch her purse off the table near the cabinet before Yvonne has her marching off down the hallway, making shooing gestures with her hands every time Pepper looks back. If she'd really felt strongly about it, Yvonne wouldn't have even budged her from the chair, but Pepper goes without protest. If she's honest with herself, she's more than a little grateful for the coward's way out.

She's been brave enough for one day.

Pepper spends the whole of her lunch break at the deli two blocks down mechanically forcing her sandwich (tuna, not enough mayo, white bread, crust on, pickles!), though it rasps drily down her throat and threatens to choke her at every swallow. She here eyes are unfocused and contemplative, staring into some unseen point beyond the horizon. The teenaged clerk with stiff, dry, died black hair and acne in careful clusters around her jaw line notices her lack of laptop, pile of files or at the very least novel with some Russian sounding title, and spends the whole forty-five minutes alternately staring at her or pretending like she hasn't been looking when she thinks Pepper is about to glance up. But Pepper barely moves, her normally stiff posture slumped slightly, elbows firmly rooted on the tabletop. She's too busy ruing her clumsiness (she might as well have just swooned at his feet!) to do anything much else but grind her teeth together force another dry swallow down.

Her lunch would be considered short by Yvonne McIntyre's extravagant standards, but it proves the welcome repute she needs for contemplation. She wouldn't say that she passed the test with flying colors, but she got through the experience as unscathed as she could ever hope to be. Another painful swallow brings the belated realization that they had to see each other sometime. Even if she picked up and moved across the country, with her luck he'd appear to torment her. She's good in this world, good at this kind of work. Where else could her anal retentive attention to detail and patience of a saint come in handy? And who said she had to move across the country anyhow? She'd done nothing so wrong as to flee the state. She's not so much of a coward that she'd cut and run like that. She rises from the table and throws away the remaining third of her sandwich.

She's all eyes when she walks back into the wing of the building that her offices reside. The girls at the front desk wave, and she manages a small, tight smile in response.

As she arrives at her desk, she sees Yvonne across the hall, though the woman seems to be pointedly avoiding her gaze. She'd be more alarmed by this strange shift in behavior any other day, but right now her mind is still running a mile a minute over different subjects and her pulse still feels a little thready. She can tell from the frosted glass window in the door of Mr. Brennan's office that the lights are turned off and no-one seems to be occupying the room any longer. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and berates herself for cowardice for the forty seventh time since Tony Stark had unknowingly stumbled back into her life.

When she goes belatedly to empty her pocket from the 23 cents accrued in change from her lunch out, she sees it. Folded over twice, there is a piece of white paper in her coin jar. She lets the change slide through her fingers and back into the pocket of her suit jacket, temporarily forgotten as she removes the note, feverishly unfolding it.

And there it was. It's unsigned but she'd recognize the handwriting anywhere. His handwriting is as exacting and precise as you would expect from a man with such a technical dedication to perfection. This particular example is a little loose, a little hurried, and a little sloppy, but she knows it. Lord how she knows it. She re-folds it careful and slips in into her pocket alongside her twenty three cents, her fingertips lingering a moment against the crisp paper. She sits back at her desk, posture straight and her fingers rest unmoving against the keyboard, seemingly poised for action, one little slip of paper burning a hole in the lining of her pocket.

_Pepper -_

_We need to talk._

Her hand trembles slightly as she lays one moist palm over the cool molded plastic of the phone receiver. She lets it rest there a long moment snatching it up and shoving it against her ear. She dials the numbers rapidly, like many of the numerical sequences her boss couldn't be bothered to remember, it is tattooed on her brain. She's certain she could never dial it again and still recite it on her deathbed.

"Stark residence, Melanie speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to leave a message for Mr. Stark. It's urgent."

"Your name, please?"

"Pepper Potts."

"Mr. Stark actually just stepped into the office and is expecting your call. Would you like me to patch you through?"

Pepper's left eye twitches imperceptibly.

"No—no, please just take a message for me."

"If it's urgent, it really isn't any trouble for me to patch—"

"No—no, please just take a message for me and see that he gets it as soon as possible."

"Of course." The sentence is accompanied by a nervous giggle.

"Just tell him 'where and when**'**. Just tell him Pepper wants to know 'where and when'. That's all. As soon as possible, please. Thank you."

Pepper hangs up the phone in the middle of Melanie's reply and stares at it, her brow drawn tight, and her lips pursed in puzzlement.

_Tony, what are you up to?_

* * *

**I'll try not to complain, but this isn't one of my favorite chapters. I rewrote the entire thing at least once more than half at least thrice and this is the only satisfactory version. I had some plans for some more complicated pacing and the first versions of this chapter were almost half in Tony's perspective, but I ended up taking all his bits out. They just mucked everything up so I'm saving them for the next chapter. So I'm regretfully mysterious until next time. I should also note that I've barely glanced this over to check for mistakes and all around terrible sentences, but I just wanted to get it up so badly! Please forgive and inform me of the most egregious offenders.  
**

**On a lighter note, all the suggestions were fabulous! I really don't have any way to express how flattered and grateful I am for all your feedback! It really helps move things along and I find myself often referring back to things people have said for inspiration. Some of the things said were absolutely spot on and kept my spirits up enough to finish this frustrating chapter. I wish I could thank you all personally, but I'm saving that until the last chapter so I don't muck the rest of the story up with three page long author's notes. Please think of me in the future as a robot whose fuel is reviews. Seriously, I swear, I write a new paragraph ever time I get one. It's creepy. Maybe I am a robot? Things to consider.  
**

**Gratefully,**

**E.M. Stevens**


	5. Chapter 5

He'd looked because she had red hair.

Red hair had become something of a compulsive trigger for him since he'd seen Pepper in front of the restaurant. It need only tease the edge of his vision, an apparition of a particular woman; a tall straight wisp with laughing eyes and a puckered brow, out of the corner of his eye and his head was already turning, already checking to make sure it wasn't her. It was a scant moment later before his brain could supply that it wasn't the right color red or that good lord that woman weighed three hundred pounds.

Redheads of the greater Los Angeles and Malibu areas area had been flattered by the attention. From the teenage set with candy-apple red dye jobs, to harried ginger-haired mothers trailing children like baby ducklings. Though none had quite appreciated the attention quite so especially as the three hundred pound ones in bright purple lycra stretch pants.

So when he'd gone for a meeting with the CEO of a major medical supplier to discuss the latest Stark Industries developments in medical imaging technology, he'd noticed the man's secretary because she had red hair. It was even the right color which allowed for a secret thrill to travel the length of his spine, but he never considered that it was actually her, even with the right color because none of the other forty seven redheads he'd seen in the last two weeks had been Pepper.

Of course, that was until she'd turned her head to the side. As the woman's fair and freckled profile turned to his ravenous gaze a jolt of revelation struck him:

It actually was her.

He barely had the time to fully comprehend the ramifications of this intriguing new development before he strides full tilt into the desk across the hall, catching the sharp and very solid corner against his hipbone. The force and angle of his approach unbalances him so entirely that he nearly ends up sprawled on the industrial beige burber carpet below, twisting awkwardly on suddenly rubbery ankles. As it is he has to grasp frantically at the edge desk to regain his balance. When he hastily rights himself he finds himself fighting a strange impulse to duck behind the potted plant to his left. Thankfully his gracelessness had gone unnoticed; Pepper always was in her own little world when organizing. Fortuitously, she has has at turned away from him again and it gives him a moment to take her in.

This is not the Pepper he saw at the restaurant that night in Malibu; this is the Pepper of old with her tight tailored pencil skirts and starched white colors that rasp stiffly against the softer material of her neck. His little butterfly has crawled back into her cocoon. And a butterfly she was, every bit as tremulous and lovely and though he might not have thought of her as delicate or temporary in the past, he thinks of her that way now, as some phantasm that hovers and trembles at the edge of his life and threatens to disappear entirely without warning.

In front of the restaurant and across a room in all her colors, all her flash in the pan charm, beguiling looks from hooded eyes over the rim of a martini glass (most of the images he currently calls to mind are imagined and it gives pause to wonder that there are so many gaps to fill in, places where his imagination is given free reign for assumption). Yet for all those things (and very good things they were) it was refreshing (and relieving) to see his girl back in all her office appropriate glory. It makes him feel less like in ten years he never really knew her at all.

A new notion suddenly factors into the equation of Pepper Potts. He suddenly takes into consideration that Pepper on the job is probably not the same girl she is at home and feels a pang of regret for his spiteful assumptions, cultivated at the darkest point of her absence, that pictured her sitting forlornly at home in a pantsuit with a fistful of highlighters, staring despondently into the abyss created by the absence of his presence. He's seen what she's been comfortable in showing him and has had a few precious glimpses into what she isn't comfortable showing him (backless blue silk at the fireman's family fund benefit and canary yellow silk cut significantly above the knee in front of the restaurant with her friends), but he begins to suppose now that there may other faucets to her that she has either concealed from him or that he's ignored in rampant examples of his own self-absorption.

He wants to see what's like when she walks along the beach barefoot, or how she acts and what she does when she gets home from work at night. He wants to watch her wake up in the morning. He wants to see her in fuzzy slippers and pajamas as equally as he wants to see her in nothing at all. Well, that may not be true. If he had to choose between one or the other and there was absolutely no possibility of having both—but never mind that.

All that said, there is a strange and new thrill in seeing Pepper back in office appropriate attire. It's disconcerting mixture of familiarity and something more startling, as though he were seeing her for the first time. He notices and appreciates the way her white shirt pulls taught against her chest when she turns or the way her skirt slides a precious inch up her thigh when bends to pick up the pen she has dropped on the floor.

When Mr. Brennan comes across him in the hallway, staring dumbly across the length at his secretary, he makes mental note, but refrains from commenting. He merely ushers Tony across the hall and towards the door to his office and coincidentally, directly into the path of Miss Potts. Strangely, all Tony can think about his the dull throb of pain, emanating from his left hip.

And there she was in a sudden whirlwind of 8 1\2 x 11 white recycled copy paper, emerging from the maelstrom stock still, rosy lips parted with only the sound of her soft gasping breath and the quiet rustle of the papers still fluttering and trembling nervously at her feet to herald her presence.

He remembers how angry he was with her for actually leaving, how angry he was with himself for actually letting her go, but instead of anger all he feels is a queer hollow sensation. It all seems pointless now as he feels the warmth of her slender hand in his own larger one.

He's really rather certain he never had any earthy idea as to what they fought about, and if he did he's both forgotten and forgiven either her or himself.

Or both, he thinks ruefully.

* * *

Mr. Brennan shuts the door to his office and ushers Tony further into the surprisingly sparse workspace, still reeling from the feeling of her small slight hand in his own. He allows himself a deep, shuddering breath while Mr. Brennan circles his desk and sits in a high backed dark leather chair with high polished brass buttons and fixtures that twinkle ostentatiously under the fluorescents. He doesn't understand how the feeling of her pale white fingers pressed against his sensitive palm could be so affecting. He's certainly touched places most would consider more erotic on her body (to say nothing of the hundreds of silky and sly little fingers that had grasped him in significantly more interesting areas), laying a hand at the small of her back had always been a guilty pleasure long before he'd understood the pleasure or the guilt. He'd once pulled small spider from her hair and brushed the tips of his fingers against her freckled neck then proceeded to spend the next hour or so studiously ignoring that the moment had any sort of significance.

He looks down at his hands, palms up and resting on his lap as Mr. Brennan begins in on the usual formalities, ("Can I offer you something to drink?" etc.) though he must notice Tony's distraction because he excuses himself briefly on the pretense of having something he need to check with his secretary before they began. Suddenly restless in the encompassing stillness of the sterile office, he jumps up from his chair and quickly walks the length of the office, drifting noticeably towards the front of the room as he can make out Pepper's form through the frosted glass windows set into the interior wall separating the office from the hallway. From this closer vantage he can make out Pepper's form standing at the side of her desk, presumably speaking with the Eugene Brennan shaped outline on her right.

The attitude of the gesture between the pair piques a particular interest beyond the obvious and he finds himself shifting towards to door without any true idea of what exactly he hopes to see. He'd made his peace with letting her be happy in her personal life. The sacrifice of the very necessary element of her presence in his life seemed noble and right if it allowed her to laugh with her head thrown back, mouth stretched wide with pearly teeth flashing. But there is something very upsetting to him about her being happy with another employer that rubs him in the wrong direction entirely. Not that he wants her to her unhappy either, or mistreated in the slightest. It's a complicated emotion, to say the least. He pushes the unlatched door open; a few careful and slow inches being all he dares, lest he be discovered. The assumed blind humiliation of being revealed eavesdropping keeps him discrete. Tony Stark is not a man who often must resort to subterfuge, but the undeniable temptation of curiosity is enough to overwhelm his trepidation concerning his current actions.

Thankfully he is quite accustomed to utterly ignoring the pings and pangs that pluck at his conscious when he is doing something wrong.

He isn't quite close enough to catch the exact niceties of the conversation, only the general tone, but the gestures and body language are clearer than through the frosted glass window. Eugene Brennan is a great tall mountain of a man with a heavy blunt jaw and a body that doesn't change dimension from shoulder to shoes. He's shaped like a brick and though Pepper comes close in height (her shoes giving the advantage necessary to compete) she cannot compete with his girth and it thusly dwarfed. Tony has enough interest invested in both parties (though each separately for entirely different reasons, Pepper because she is Pepper and he doesn't think he'll ever not be a little interested in her despite the circumstances, Mr. Brennan because medical technology is one of the directions that Stark Industries is making leaps and bounds with and a contract with a major medical supplier could mean getting his company back on steady grounding and far away from the company's morally ambiguous past) to turn the full of his attention and subject them to his critical eye.

He notices how Mr. Brennan angles his large body towards Pepper, who in turn inversely parallels the motion to keep her distance, back arching backwards and body twisted at the waist in such a manner as to make the line of his body perpendicular to her left shoulder. He sees the sharp set of the man's brow and may or may not see a thick vein bulging on one side of his generous neck (with the distance it may very well be his imagination). Though he cannot currently remember all the times he'd been less than kind to Miss Potts, (and oh have there been more than a few times he'd raised his voice to her when she'd been a little to persistent in her attempts to alter some of his more destructive habits), there is something that sits heavy and troubled in the very pit of his stomach when Brennan takes hold of one slim white forearm and shakes it slightly. He resists the urge to push the door open all the way, sending it flying out in a burst of theatrics and sound. But just as quickly as he takes hold of her does Pepper deftly pluck his meaty fingers from round her wrist and substitutes a sheaf of papers, heavily paper clipped in sections and he seems well enough satisfied by the replacement. It sends him off across the hallway to fiddle with something on the desk across the hall. The motion draws his eye so he almost misses Pepper turn to face him in full and roll her eyes. He thinks that she sees him for a minute and smiles compulsively at the quirk of her brow, the exasperated curve of her lip, but she doesn't actually see him, hidden as he is.

She was supposed to be happy. None of this made any sense if she wasn't.

He is sitting deceptively still in his chair when Mr. Brennan returns to the office, giving no outward clue to the furious bedlam of his thoughts.

* * *

When he finally emerges from the office with Brennan, he and makes it halfway down the hallway before he excuses himself back towards the office on the pretense of having forgotten something. They shake hands stiffly, sizing each other up and part ways, leaving Tony free to return and harangue Miss Potts until he has some sort of bearing on what the hell is wrong with them, which is fully his intention were she anywhere to be found.

The brunette with unlikely breasts, large hair and on closer inspection, rather unsightly crow's feet he'd seen walk the length of the hallway in front of the office now sits at Pepper's desk. She's perched like a bird on the edge of the desk chair, legs crossed to her advantage, though she rather looks like the cat that caught the canary when he doubles back and approaches her. In the past she might have been at least amusing, but he's out of patience and the woman he'd really like to see is nowhere to be found.

"Can I help you," she all but purrs the question. There isn't time for this, he thinks exasperatedly, as he has no idea when Mr. Brennan will return to his office, otherwise he'd be quite content to stake out Pepper's desk until she returns. Whenever that might be.

"Do you know when Pep—Miss Potts will be back?"

"She's out to lunch, but I'm sure I'll be able to assist you in any way, Mr. Stark."

"Right—how about a piece of paper and a pen," Tony does his best to smile, but the efforts are tight and strained.

"Here—I'm Yvonne, by the way." She flutters her eyelashes.

Tony says nothing, already absorbed in the paper and pen Yvonne has produced from Pepper's desk. He hesitates a small moment with the pen poised unmoving before deciding in favor of simplicity. He's determined to get her to explain this to him face to face.

"Are you sure there isn't any other way I might assist you? _Any_ other way? It wouldn't be any trouble. I'd be _happy_ to be of service."

Tony waves his free hand in her face, not even bothering to look up from the paper.

"If you could just—somewhere else," Tony now gestures across the hallway distractedly, "Over there maybe. Just—you know—not here."

Tony waits until she's flounced wounded across the hall and dumped herself into her desk chair before he folds the piece of paper over twice and glances across the landscape of Pepper's painfully organized desk in search somewhere to place his note. He needs her to see it right away, but he's rather at a loss as where to put it to achieve this particular end. If this were her desk at Stark Industries or even the small desk in the corner of his home office then he'd know exactly what she'd look at first, but he's not even entirely certain what it is she does here so he has no idea which neat stack of papers she's going to pick up first. He contemplates taping it to her computer monitor, but he doesn't trust the harpy across the hall not to rush back over the second he's left. When he sees her blasted coin jar half hiding behind said monitor he nearly laughs out loud in relief.

Yes, she's still the same as she ever was and a strange warmth spreads soft fingers across his chest at the thought. He makes sure Yvonne isn't watching him from across the hall when he slips the piece of paper into the jar and sets off down the hallway, feeling quite pleased with himself.

All this nobility and being the bigger man business is all well and good in other aspects, but it's gotten old. Selfishness and self-protecting behaviors don't often extend to persons outside yourself, but he'd often heard her described as his right hand and though he found the description fitting in the past, his mind picks upon the phrase with new meaning.

By action committed by both she has become cut off from him at the wrist, and the sensation is rather like phantom limb syndrome. He isn't sure he'll ever get used to her not being there.

Being selfless is clearly overrated, he thinks.

* * *

**Bleh. I had mad writers block for this chapter. Actually, I'm not sure if it was writers block because I knew exactly what I had to write and how it ought to be written, I just--you know--didn't write anything or have any real desire to write otherwise. Ah well. It feels good to get this out and posted and as always your devoted robot writer needs her fuel for the week. ;p Ha. As usual this chapter is riddled with mistakes as I only have my own faulty eyes to look them over 'fore I post them. I'll fix everything once this blasted story is finished!  
**

**In the next chapter I promise you the following things:**

** -Flagrant and unapologetic use of original characters (_oh noes!_)  
**

** -Someone giving Pepper advice (_helpful!_)  
**

** -Tony and Pepper alone together in the same setting with no bothersome interruptions (_intrigue!_)**

**To my reviewers: I heart you. For reals. For serious. **

**Faithfully (if always a little late with her chapters),**

**E.M. Stevens**


	6. Chapter 6

Pepper spends most of the afternoon on her very last nerve.

From the moment she rests the phone in its cradle, the sheer anticipation its shrill ringing thrums a progressively violent rhythm down her every nerve. She is to the brim with certainty that the phone will ring any second. She glances at it compulsively.

Any second now.

Naturally, the phone does not ring (of course) no matter how forcefully she stares at it, and when it does ring it's never the person she's been hoping for. In the interim she turns her mind to speculations of where, when and how Tony might reply to her message. She now regrets not just speaking to him; getting it over and done with (ripping off the band-aid) because the anticipation of talking to him is like a hive of bees buzzing in her chest and the more time she allows to pass, the more opportunities she has to make mountains of molehills, the angrier the bees get.

In addition to the sheer torture that is her telephone, there seems to be an inordinate amount of dark haired men in dark suits that happen to traverse the hallway in front of her desk and every time she catches one out of the corner of her eye it sends a quick and startling jolt of adrenaline through her. By the time it comes to pack up her things for the day, she's exhausted and stretched tight as a piano wire; snarling and ill-tempered as she'll allow herself in the workplace. Thankfully Yvonne has kept her distance for the remainder of the afternoon, the only exception being the occasional dirty glare. Pepper would normally take Yvonne's silence as a small but glorious blessing, but in her current state she finds offense at the snub and Yvonne's less than friendly glances across the hall are each an unspoken slight against her. Even the enthusiastic laughter of the temps who run the switchboard which echoes in the atrium grates at her nerves.

As five o'clock rolls along she hastily (and gratefully) collects her things and to the credit of her self control, she doesn't look at the phone once. She does however; check her cell on her way across the parking lot.

No missed calls.

She flips open the face of the phone and cycles through her address book in a decisive gesture. It rings three long rings and she almost thinks it's the answering machine when a voice finally answers her.

"It's Pepper," she sighs. "I've changed my mind. Let's go out tonight."

* * *

"Deirdre, a moment? Please?"

"Sure—sure, of course. We're just going to have a cigarette, girls—back in a flash."

Deirdre takes Pepper by the arm and drags her outside, weaving in and out of packed tables, effortlessly avoiding elbows and handbags slung on the back of chairs with the ease of someone very accustomed to navigating this particular sort of obstacle course. Pepper, who trails awkwardly in her wake, knocks a coat of the back of a chair and bumps a frail wisp of a girl into her water glass.

The still warm summer air hits her in a wave as they slip out the door, and already she can feel small beads of sweat collecting and shimmering along her hairline. Deidre lights a cigarette and takes one slow long drag, smoke emerging from her parted red lips and curling around her raven's wing hair.

"What?"

"I didn't mean for you to bring all of them!" she gestures at their friends in restaurant, lined up like colorful birds, perched delicately on barstools and fluttering coquettishly at the young bartender. All she manages is to smack the back of her hand loudly against the glass, causing the people sitting at the table nearest to bolt upright in alarm. Deirdre re-takes her arm and drags her past the window.

"What is wrong with you tonight?"

"I just wanted to talk to you." She falters. "I want to ask your opinion of something. I saw Tony Stark today."

Deirdre looks at her nonplussed.

"And?"

"And? It was a big deal, okay!"

"See, here's the thing," Deirdre settles back against the brick façade of the restaurant. "You say you work for the guy and I realize that you worked for him a long time, but Pepper—"she hesitates, which is somewhat unlike her, "This is a little above and beyond the normal awkwardness when you run into a former employer."

"I know. Oh god, I know. It's just—we were close, I guess."

Deirdre arches one fine eyebrow.

"How close?"

"Not that close," says Pepper defensively.

"Did you ever want to be? You know—_close_?" The way that Deirdre takes the trouble of drawing out the last syllable across the entire length of her tongue leaves no doubt as to the particular sort of closeness she is referring to. Pepper feels her face grow hot.

"No! Of course not."

"Liar."

Deidre is all laughter and the last thread of Pepper's patience snaps abruptly. She snatches the lit cigarette from Deidre's outstretched hand and takes a quick, furious drag. "Hey! You don't smoke. Give me that."

"For your information, I smoked in college. For two semesters."

"Oh really? Two whole semesters?" Deirdre sneers and makes a quick and fruitless grab at the stolen cigarette. "It doesn't mean I'm going to let you now. Lung cancer. Emphysema. Seriously, Pepper. Give that back."

"Fine," she relents and forks back over the cigarette. Deidre pouts, childishly petulant. "You ruined it," she whines accusingly and stubs it out on the ground with the tip of her sandal, all the while fishing in her purse for her slim silver cigarette case. "You can have your own," Deirdre gestures with her dime store BIC lighter, in sharp contrast to the richness of her cigarette case and possible everything else she owns, "if you start telling me the truth."

"Deal."

The silence stretches out as they swap the bright pink plastic lighter back and forth.

"I wanted to. Sometimes—I don't know, okay? It was complicated."

Deirdre smiles.

"There's no shame in it, Pepper. There probably isn't one of us," she gestures back at the entrance of the restaurant, "who wouldn't hit that—given the opportunity. Present company not excluded. It'd be unnatural if you never entertained the notion at least or twice." Deirdre considers this a moment. "Every fifteen minutes," she finishes conclusively.

Pepper allows herself a small smile.

"I guess so."

"So why didn't you?"

"I'm a professional. That will never, _ever_ be negotiable—it's who I am. Besides, even if that wasn't an issue—and it was a pretty big issue—it would have been the fastest way to end it." She sighs. "Whatever that means. Also—there were a lot of girls. A lot, Dee. There were girls on a _spectacular_ level. I've got my pride, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. Your pride. Hmm."

Deirdre takes a long moment to absorb. When she lifts her head, her eyes are sharp.

"Did you love him?"

Pepper shakes her head.

"I don't know." Deirdre opens her mouth, and Pepper is certain an admonishment sits poised on the tip of her tongue, so she cuts her off. "It's the truth, Dee. I swear. I cared about him—I can say that much, conclusively. He was—my best friend, I guess. After my sister got married and my father died, he was all I really had in the world."

"Alright, I guess I can buy that. So what happened today that put you all _aflutter_?"

"Nothing really, I guess. I just—god—I miss him, you know? And then he was there—just out of nowhere— and there was all this paper everywhere—I totally made an ass of myself, by the way—we barely said two words to each other. Then they were meeting and I went on lunch and by the time I got back, he was gone."

"That's it?" Deirdre is incredulous disbelief. "If that's all it takes to put your—"

While her friend speaks, Pepper is opening her gold lamé clutch purse and thrusting a folded up white slip of at her friend.

"When I came back from lunch, I found this on my desk. It's his handwriting."

Deirdre reads the letter (if it even qualifies in length to deserve the name) several times.

"So he wants to talk," Deirdre starts, cautiously. "That's good, right?"

"I don't know what it is!" The words burst from Pepper in a chaotic rush of emotion, a fair bit louder than she had intended. Now that they have finally gotten to the heart of the matter, she finds it difficult to contain everything that's been building inside her since this afternoon. She takes a breath and tries again, a little quieter and more than a little hesitant.

"Do you think I should go?"

"Of course you should go! Pepper—what on earth are you so _afraid_ of?"

Pepper had been prepared to whine and drag her heels yet ultimately do whatever it was her friend suggested she do because all this business with Tony out of the blue had her so flustered and ass backwards that she can't think straight. Every time she tries to lay things out in her mind, separate and categorize everything, look at every aspect of the situation for what it is in truth it gets so hopelessly tangled that she doesn't even know where to begin. The question Deirdre asks her stops her up and the coil of tension that has wound its way around her all day slowly unclenches a slow serpentine path until all the frenzied energy and muddled thoughts racing through her are reduced to a soft silence.

_That's—a really, really good question_, Pepper thinks.

Deirdre takes another drag off her cigarette when it becomes apparent that her friend is not going to produce any kind of answer to her question any time soon.

"Listen to me, dear. I'm going to tell you a story. You can decide what you think about it, or how it relates to you or doesn't—it's no never mind to me."

"It's about me and Eugene."

Pepper cannot suppress the intense look of misgiving from making its way to her features. How anything about the relationship between the effervescent and tempestuous Deirdre and brutish and unfeeling Eugene Brennan relates to, well, anything. She tries to hide her incredulity by ducking her head and flicking the ash from the tip of her long forgotten cigarette. She takes another drag and deeply regrets on a fundamental level asking Deirdre for one. She is filled with the sudden and desperate urge to brush her teeth.

"I know he's not a good man, Pepper. It's not in his nature. He's an aggressive little shit sometimes, and the way he treats people is appalling." She looks a Pepper pointedly and points a slim finger at her. "For the record, I didn't want to get you a job working for him. But you asked for a favor and you're my favorite. And I probably owe you. I don't know what for, but I owe everybody. Why not you?"

Deidre sighs another cloudy of wispy white smoke and punctuates her monologue with gesticulations from her cigarette for emphasis.

"A leopard doesn't really change his spots. All those girls," at this she points to their friends, already howling at the inside the bar, "will tell you otherwise, but I'm older and the duty falls to me to put you wise. You can beg and plead and play games until you're old and gray. I never told my husband to be anything other than what he was. I just let him know exactly what I was, in no uncertain terms."

"Deirdre, I don't see how—"

Her friend frowns and points her lit cigarette dangerously close to Pepper's nose.

"Listen! There were compromises that had to be made—it's a gamble. If you love someone," at this, Deidre turns to face Pepper and suddenly she seems as serious and imposing as her husband, her eyes glittering sharply in her pale face, "It's worth losing them. You've got to trust that having them, if even for a little while; will be better than never having them at all. Besides," she gives Pepper a sidelong glance as she takes another long slow pull off her cigarette and suddenly her demeanor is teasing as one corner of her lips turns up, "haven't you already lost him? If you ask me, you're in the perfect position to make a move, I think."

"Make a move? Deirdre, I really think you have the wrong impression about all this. About me and Mr. Stark."

Deidre looks lazily out of the corner of her eye.

"Do I?"

A yes stands poised on the tip of Pepper's tongue but it won't move past her lips as hard as she tries all she can do is stand there, almost choking on it. She rubs her bare arms against a chill that doesn't exist in the warm summer wind.

"That's what I thought."

Deidre stubs out her cigarette on the brick face of the building at presses Tony's note back into Pepper's hand.

"Listen to me, Pepper. When we both come home and it's just the two of us he looks at me in this way—I can't begin to describe it—and I just know. I know I mean more to the leopard than his spots."

Pepper blinks.

"It seems to me that you've got to decide if you're willing to find out whether or not you mean more to the man than his spots."

* * *

The natural response (in such a situation) to that particular sort of advice given in that particular way is to spend the rest of the evening with a drink in your hand.

Pepper does so without fail, her knuckles half white on the glass. The young bartender (at his brashly charming best under all the attention) looked at her strangely when she asked for a scotch; they all had, a chorus of glossy haired heads turning in bewildered unison. Her friends had looked at her as though she'd sprouted another head. She'd brushed them off and though they couldn't help but be put out her standoffishness, they'd become relatively accustomed, though not accepting, of Pepper's "moods".

Ada Stewart, a petite bottle blond, who is the youngest of their ranks at the fresh faced and terrifyingly naïve age of twenty-two, concernedly offers to purchase her drink if she can't afford anything better. All Pepper can offer the this little slip of youth is a half-hearted smile and the assurance that quality of what she'd ordered had actually been slightly more expensive than the neon colored mystery lurking in the girl's sugar rimmed martini glass.

They all like her much better (bartender included) after her third drink, which alters her dour mood greatly. _Tony Stark who_, she thinks, then announces her revelation to the entire bar. Loudly. Deirdre hides her knowing smile in a cocktail napkin while the rest of the girls succumb to confused laughter.

Ada promptly orders her another scotch.

* * *

They end up having to call her a cab.

Ada, as slyly as anyone supposed her capable of, slipped the driver a hundred dollar bill before she'd climbed in, still somehow assuming, despite all protests or evidence otherwise that Pepper was now tragically penniless and too proud to inform her friends of her sorry state. The drive, while by no means worth a hundred dollars, allows her a little time to collect herself and by the time Pepper finds herself at the gates of her apartment complex she (though by no means at full capacity) is beginning to verge on sobriety. This does not stop her from engaging in a five minute battle with her cognitive abilities in order to figure out the sudden and dizzying complication of putting her pass code in correctly then finding the key to unlock the front gate. She drags herself bonelessly up the steps and down her hallway, reflecting on the evening and finding herself all the more perplexed for the trouble of it. Instead of the answers she'd so desperately wanted all she'd gotten were a tangled mess of new questions.

She keeps the fingertips of her right hand lightly against the wall to keep her path steady and as they brush against the door of apartment seven, she notices a piece of white paper fixed to the door at the far end of the hallway. It takes her a moment to realize that this is in fact her door and then she is off down the hall at as close to a dead run as she can manage (more of a lilting and unsteady jog). It is a folded white paper, tucked lightly underneath the loose corner of the number on her door. When she opens it, she finds almost exactly what she expects: Stark Industries letter head and familiar handwriting (though she would own to no assumptions on the contents; Tony Stark was nothing if not unpredictable).

_Pepper—_

_Hudson Bay Café. Six. Tomorrow._

Pepper blinks slowly. Once, then twice.

_That's it?_

She flips the page over but there isn't a speck of writing on the other side. She'd been on edge all day for this? Pepper takes a solitary shuddering breath and feels some of the butterflies in her stomach flutter out of her throat. She can't even begin to explain to herself or anyone why she she's disappointed and a little angry at the uninspired communication. It seems so—anticlimactic.

It isn't until she's half undressed for bed, brushing her teeth with her hair pinned awkwardly lopsided on the top of her head that she notices it. She'd laid the note on the bathroom counter on her way in to take off the trappings of a night out. Near the bottom of the page, in pencil and half obscured by part of the Stark Industries logo, is the following addendum:

_Since when do you smoke?_

_Since never_, she thinks.

She knows better than to waste too much thought on how exactly he knew where she was (and the strange intimacy of him actually having the presumptuousness of following her and observing her without her knowledge. That is another can of worms she's not quite ready for at this late hour); the end result of which could only produce a great deal of ire, a headache, or both. For the first time in the course of a very strange, very long day, slow and hesitant smile reaches her eyes.

* * *

Pepper Potts is ready for battle.

Every aspect of her appearance is careful and calculated and her attitude and mannerisms are perfectly rehearsed to appear as casual and spontaneous as possible. When she arrives at the Hudson Bay Café ten minutes early she is very much dismayed to find it not very much of a café at all, but rather an intimate and very expensive looking restaurant. Though in reality there is absolutely nothing wrong or inappropriate with her appearance in the current setting, she instantaneously regrets dressing with an inclination towards the casual (_Strapless? Pepper, what were you thinking_?). She squares her shoulders and approaches the maître d' with purpose, all the while trying to reassure herself.

_One strike does not the war win, Pepper_, she thinks.

When she is informed that Mr. Stark has already arrived and is waiting for her, she can only stare dumbly and ask the time. Her clocks are correct; she is indeed ten minutes early. When did Tony Stark show up early for anything in his life? To her immense horror, she actually feels her palms start to sweat when she is led to the private room that she is expected to dine in this evening. Well, that ruled out a casual conversation over coffee between old friends.

_Two strikes._

She doesn't look at him when the maître d' pulls out her chair and she alights stiffly to the richly upholstered cushion. After a moment she gathers her wits and finally glances up and she finds him looking at her, his expression is sphinx-like and his eyes dark; she surreptitiously wipes her moist palms on her skirt underneath the table cloth.

"Miss Potts," is his greeting. She lays her palms face down on the tablecloth and leans forward slightly.

"Tony," she replies.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly at the familiarity of her response and the calculated insolence of her tone as he watches her, and Pepper contemplates if this is victory enough to consider a strike in her favor.

A silence stands poised to stretch the entire great and terrible distance that has grown between them, giving Pepper the temptation of platitudes, but it would seem that luck is on her side because their furiously blushing and eager slip of a waitress ("Hi, my name is Sarah and I'll be your server this evening!") has just descended upon them as if from nowhere, breaking the spell.

Tony asks her if she wants wine. She assumes he's talking to the waitress, so he looks intently at her and repeats the question a little more forcefully.

"Oh—oh, no. None for me, thank you."

He doesn't even break stride in the slightest as he requests some obscure vintage of Syrah (or was it Pinot Noir? She can't remember).

"For two," he insists to the puzzled waitress who seems distracted by Pepper frantically shaking her head.

"Tony, no. I'm not going to have any," she turns her eyes to the clearly uncomfortable waitress, "Just for one, please. Thank you."

"Two, if you please." He holds up two fingers, as if to clarify and smiles in that just so way. "Two." The waitress goes from slightly pink in the cheeks to bright red at the sight. Pepper never had a chance.

"I hope you know I'm not going to drink any," she announces waspishly once the waitress has fluttered off.

"Consider it a 'just in case' gesture. I wouldn't want to make more work for poor Cindy,"

"Sarah," she interjects.

"More work for _Sarah _when you change your mind."

"I'm not going to change my mind," she mutters petulantly under her breath.

Pepper drinks two and a half glasses.

_Strike three._

* * *

**This took way too long! I am very sorry and terribly repentant. I've been feeling poorly and rather unmotivated, but rest assured this story still has an ending and I intend to see it through as such. I'm afraid I can't do much in the way of teasing for the next chapter because I don't want to give anything away! It's a pretty important chapter in terms of _progress_ and all I will say conclusively is that you will see the conclusion of Tony and Pepper's dinner out and Tony forms a plan. See? I already feel as though I've said too much. Bah.**

**I have a beta now and this chapter is off with her as we speak, but I was so horribly impatient to post this chapter that I haven't given her a speck of time to read things over and am just posting my chapter anyway, so look forward to a cleaner version of this chapter in a day or two. Hopefully, she forgives me. It just took me so bloody long to write this I wanted to get it to you as soon as possible because you are all so lovely and patient with me and give me such beautiful advice. In short, I do this because I lurve you. It's true! :)**

**P.S. If anyone is dying to know how the progress on the next chapter is coming or wants to ask specific questions that need reply, drop a line to my e-mail (you'll find it in my profile) and we shall have a lovely little chat. I enjoy talking to people. I am not scary in the slightest.  
**

**Devotedly,**

**E.M. Stevens  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Note: I am having a crazy hard time with line breaks... seriously, what is the deal? # - is equal to - line break.**

**#  
**

They came to dinner armed with agenda instead of appetite. They both came prepared for something that during soups and salads doesn't happen.

They do not find it amongst the croutons or the breadbasket, nor does it linger in the folds of their starched linen napkins. The waitress does not bring it with the entrée. If either had been expecting an instantaneous catalyst at the first opportunity for conversation, they are sorely disappointed. It's too easy not to address the situation, too easy to ignore it. She's missed him. As prepared as she was for tense and awkward conversation, when it doesn't occur she can't imagine herself being the one to initiate it.

He seems starved for her attention and though she's scarcely given the opportunity to get a word in, for once in the history of her relationship with Tony Stark, she doesn't mind. Pepper has often thought him fascinated with the sound of his own voice. She lets him talk. She allows herself the luxury of being easily charmed. He's on his best behavior and at his most charismatic and she finds herself delighted both with the candor of his narrative and the heady knowledge that she has the entirety of his attention (for once).

And for the first time since he was gone, Pepper Potts allows herself the privilege to feel something towards this man. It begins as the first tendrils of softer feeling blossom lowly in her stomach, slowly unfurling, sinuously stretching outwards until she feels it radiate to the tips of her fingers. They itch to creep across the table cloth and latch on to one of his hands (busy illustrating whatever idle anecdote he is currently relating with gusto). She wants to hold him still, if only just for a moment. Hold him still in this quiet moment to keep him forever here with her. After then finish the bottle of wine he orders her that missing martini from the night of the fireman's benefit. "Ridiculously dry," he playfully intones to the eager waitress. "Almost _painfully_ dry. Oh, and at least three olives. Less than three is entirely unacceptable. I'm not sure I'll even been content with three. Maybe four?" He orders a scotch for himself. He also orders dessert, a generous square of tiramisu to share (sharing had only been at her insistence "I won't be able to eat the whole thing by myself. I just want a taste." "Just a taste, Pepper?" he'd teased.)

She doesn't give into the physical manifestations of these tender impulses of course, but for the first time (perhaps ever) she acknowledges and recognizes that she wants to. That maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't be wrong. She's not his employee any more. And he's made such progress; she's so hopelessly, endlessly _proud_ of this man, of his accomplishments, of his idealism, and of his passion. Deirdre was right; what has she got to lose? That in and of itself is a rather monumental revelation in her mind. All that outwardly marks the occasion is a queer sort of little smile, an intimate softness about the eyes and in the curve of her wrist and fingers as she presses them to the hollow between her collar bones. It is a tender gesture; entirely feminine, and speaks to a long tradition of women, who like her, love or have loved great men.

Even though what is displayed outwardly is only the palest reflection of its internal inspiration, it is not so subtle a transformation that it goes unnoticed by Tony, if only subconsciously.

It's probably what gave him the courage to completely and irrevocably muck up the evening.

"So when are you coming back to work?"

Pepper starts and the sudden interruption. "Excuse me?" It's an automatic question and it bursts from her before she even really processes what he's just asked her.

Indulgently, he repeats the question verbatim.

"For you?" It's a stupid question, but she's still reeling from the abrupt and inexplicable turn of the conversation. She later supposes that she's simply out of practice; Tony's mouth often didn't hold pace with his mind.

He levels his gaze on her and she can see an insolent response simmering just underneath his blithe demeanor.

"Well," he pauses thoughtfully and folds his hands in front of him on the table, "Well, yes. I'm not terribly interested in you working anywhere else, I'm afraid."

Pepper blinks, still not entirely sure how to respond.

Tony changes tactics. "Jarvis is lost without you, you know," he says with a sardonic smile, "I mean, really. Haven't we done this long enough?"

"Is that really what this is about, Tony?"

Pepper can tell he senses the danger of the question posed to him as he leans back slightly in his chair, his expression suddenly cautious.

"Well, yes and no—" he looks at her carefully, "Mostly no."

"You know what? If all you wanted was to talk about me coming back to S.I., then by all means, let's just get it out of the way."

"Now hold on a second—"

"No," Pepper interrupts.

"No?"

"No!" Pepper exclaims more forcefully with mounting frustration.

"No you won't hold on a second?"

"No, I have no intention of returning to employment at Stark Industries. In _any _capacity. There. Now that's all done with. Was there anything else you wished to discuss Mr. Stark?"

Though he looks poised to protest, the alcoholically emboldened Miss Potts barrels blindly forward in her diatribe, showing clearly that she has absolutely no interest whatsoever in any attempts Tony Stark might have to defend himself.

"And just to be clear here, I consider the subject closed. I will neither invite nor appreciate any further discussion on the matter," Pepper takes a few swift, violent stabs at the tiramisu with her desert spoon, "If you're still looking for my replacement, I might have some suggestions to suitable candidates within the company."

"I've already hired someone, thank you very much," Tony offers petulantly.

"Ah, yes. I believe I spoke with her on the phone. How is she getting along?"

"Swimmingly."

Though Tony looks utterly deflated from his earlier bombastic bravado, slouching and sullen in his chair, eyes fixed pointedly at some spot on the carpet left of his shoe, Pepper finds she can't take the bit of pleasure in it. Just the opposite. How could she? The transition from besotted flattery to awkward, thinly veiled hostility is not something she could have ever wished for. It makes her think—what does she really want from him? What did she expect?

What's left of the meal takes place in almost complete silence. The remainder of her martini goes un-imbibed; the last olive resting forlornly in the bottom of the glass. On the other hand, Tony's scotch is drained with impressive enthusiasm, yet he refuses the waitresses oft repeated inquires for refills. Pepper pointedly drags the desert plate out of his reach and stuffs every last bite of their shared the glistening tiramisu un-delicately down her throat. Pepper mentions Tony's most recent T.V appearance, but it fails to stimulate much more than a few moments worth of idle chatter. When the waitress lays the check down on the table, Pepper is the first to reach out her hand for it, but the look Tony shoots her is so unapologetically scathing that even in her self-righteousness she doesn't have the heart to refuse him. She returns her arm to her side, somehow shamed. It's enough for her to forget to insist on leaving the tip at the very least. They rise from the table in unison and they fall into step as they walk to the exit. She pauses at the door, fully expecting to part ways and put an end to this disastrous evening, but he opens the door and stands to one side, gesturing for her to go through. He stiffly walks her to her car without a word.

Pepper stands with her back to the driver's side door, arms folded to stave off the nighttime chill. "Thank you for dinner," She hesitates, but cannot resist the final dig; "It was—_informative_."

To her surprise, instead of his persistently thunderous expression, there is instead a strange light behind the intensity of his gaze and a beatific smile on his lips. "I'll see you soon," he says before turning on his heel and heading for the other side of the parking lot. Pepper watches his car pull into traffic before she gets into her own car.

_How on earth can we fix this,_ she thinks hopelessly, _if he doesn't even know there's something wrong?_

**#**

At home, Pepper is inconsolable.

She feels like she's back to the beginning again; all the progress and forward momentum she thought she had now feels artificial. She realizes now that she loves him and the knowledge comes with all the grace of a punch to the stomach. Yet, to her surprise, it doesn't feel strange to admit it, but rather more natural than all the protests and denials she's made over the years. It provides answers to many mysteries within her own life and to deny the admission doesn't even occur to her.

Her newly realized feelings for her boss cast an illuminating light on her decision to leave the company. She can't love him and be on payroll. It's as simple as that. Pepper considers her self-respect to be a cornerstone of her entire identity, and to alter herself so fully to the whims of another savors strongly of deceit. She is who she is and she could never change something so fundamental, so vital to the preservation of her own identity. She understands now that it would have been impossible for her to continue on like that, even without her impulsive outburst as a catalyst for separation, torn between two fundamentally separate and conflicting roles in his life: lover and subordinate.

It stings to think she's un-allowed to be close to him in the way she wants. Her only capacity in his life seems to be that of paid employee and she supposes there isn't anything she can do to change that. She can't force him to want her the way that she wants him. And even if there is a spark of attraction in him, he doesn't understand she can't schedule his appointments between the sheets of his bed. She knows she can't let things stay the way she's left them; she needs to apologize to Tony for her behavior, both her initial outburst and her sharpness at dinner tonight, and try to salvage whatever she can from the mess she's created. Even if he won't accept her in the way she wants, or at the very least a friend or casual acquaintance, she can at the very least ensure that they part on good terms, for once. Beggars, she supposes, are not meant to be choosers. If there is a place in his life for her, she'll take it. Just not as his employee, oh anything but that; it's too cruel and even if she represses her admiration for him and her keen desire to mean something important to him, initially it may work but in the long term she's convinced she'll repeat the uncharacteristic outburst that started all this mess. Some things are too great to be repressed.

It was a petty of her, to pick a fight with him in the first place; and to become so waspish at the mere suggestion that she return to work for him. All of a sudden, she feels a little ashamed and more than a little silly. And tired; so tired. Pepper lies down on her bed fully clothed, suddenly exhausted. Pepper tries to convince herself that she needs to get up, take of her dress and shoes, wash the cosmetics from her face, but before she makes any progress, her eyes have closed.

The phone ringing sharply breaks the balmy silence of her bedroom and wakes her an hour later. Bleary-eyed fumbles with her clutch (she'd fallen asleep with it still in her hand) and glances at the screen. It's Deirdre. Pepper very seriously considers ignoring her cell phone and drifting mournfully back to sleep, stilettos straps twisting awkwardly about her ankles and strapless bra half wedged underneath her armpit. Yet the consequences of this apparent even in her bleak frame of mind.

"Hello?"

"I'm bored. Entertain me," Deirdre carelessly announces.

"I'm not in—"

"Oh, that's right—tonight was your grand rendezvous." Deirdre interrupts as if this particular subject hadn't been the entire purpose of her call. "Oh, do you mind if I put you on speaker phone? I'm in the hot tub and I'm worried I'm going to drop the phone."

Pepper sighs. "Fine."

"Alright, just hold on—wait—okay. I got it."

"So," Deirdre begins again, "How'd it go?"

"I gave him too much credit. He seemed so different—" she pauses for a moment, hesitating to so fully condemn him, "But he hasn't really changed one bit."

Deirdre sighs plaintively. "So much for spots."

**#**

"Mr. Stark. I'm surprised to hear from you. Saturday morning, on my private line," Eugene Brennan leans over his sleeping wife to glace at the illuminated clock on the nightstand, "at four-thirty-seven am."

"Yes, well. Sorry about that," (Tony Stark does not sound sorry about that.) "Time waits for no man. Listen, we need to nail down this contract issue. I need this taken care of ASAP."

"Are you being serious? At _four in the morning_ you wake me up, _in my home,_ to negotiate contracts?"

"There is a delicate matter that has only recently come to my attention. I need it handled discreetly and I need it handled now. I'm prepared to concede all of the suggested sub-clauses, under one condition."

Brennan sits up in bed a little; Tony Stark is being _very_ generous. Beside him, Deirdre stirs and cracks open one eye, her displeasure at being awoken palatable.

"The circumstances under which Ms. Potts separated from Stark Industries are—regrettable. She was a vital part of a great many important operations—needless to say, we're interested in re-hiring her."

"What exactly are you trying to say, Stark?"

"Speaking plainly? Fire her. Fire her and we're in business."

A long pregnant pause ensues.

"Consider it done," Brennan announces with some hesitation, "I trust this is the last conditional request of our agreement. I'm not in the habit of being so—accommodating."

"No one would suspect you of such," Tony replies with dismissive sarcasm. "As soon as you can provide the proper documentation that Miss Potts is no longer on your payroll, we'll be golden."

"As I said, consider it done," Another pause, "Am I correct in assuming that you would prefer Miss Pott's severance documentation to be provided directly to you, rather than your board of directors?"

"Discretion is the name of the game, Mr. Brennan. I appreciate your willingness to—accommodate me in such a delicate matter."

The phone line goes dead and Mr. Brennan sets the receiver back into the cradle on the nightstand.

"Who the fuck was that?" Deirdre demands sleepily.

"You'll never guess," he replies.

**#**

Back on the cliff tops of Malibu, safely ensconced in his mansion, Tony Stark is every inch the cat that ate the canary.

"See you soon, Pepper Potts."

**#**

**Goodness gracious! I bet you thought you'd never see another chapter out of me, eh? Sorry about the long sabbatical. I was too busy being the mayor of mope town to do any writing whatsoever. But I really am quite determined to finish this fluffy little wisp of fiction; I set it as a challenge for myself and I'm quite determined to see it through. I just need to remind myself that this kind of writing is for fun not for stress. It was a little difficult getting back into character and such, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time laboring over this for all I have to show for it. Any thoughts you guys might have about characterization would be mighty helpful.**

**This chapter naturally goes out to all the people who e-mailed me in my absence. Mostly you fall into two categories: those of you I responded to and told outrageous lies concerning when a new chapter was going to be ready (in my defense I totally believed myself at the time) and those of you I didn't respond to because I knew I was in no mood for writing and felt guilty at getting all your encouragement and support when I had no current plans to do anything about it. This chapter would not exist without you.**

**The good news is there are only one or two more chapters left! Yay, exciting. And next chapter is for sure going to be a show down of epic proportions. Shazam.**

**Contritely and faithfully yours,**

**E.M. Stevens**


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning dawns as bright and clear as any morning in Los Angeles can be, the specter of smog clinging lightly to the horizon.

Pepper arrives for work, square shouldered; bright eyed and more determined than ever to make her new life work, to establish herself as independently successful, forever out of the shadow of Tony Stark and her role as his hapless girl Friday. Her makeup is flawless; her demure French is twist tight against the back of her head, her suit impeccably tailored and modest. She's even wearing a low heel today (low for her, anyway): vintage architectural heeled plain black leather pumps.

Her smile is cool and professional at the front reception and she takes the opportunity to breathe deeply as she strides through the atrium.

Tony can be ridiculous all he wants but she refuses to play along with his coy little temper tantrums. She's a big girl now who won't pout and stamp her feet just because she can't have him in the way she wants him, won't cry because she could never call him her own and really believe it. She's bitterly embarrassed by her own behavior last night at dinner.

She hoped for something that couldn't exist and that could only ever be her own fault. She had wanted to believe he could change so intently that to be face with the disparity between what she had imagined and what really happened was too much. So disappointing that petulance she felt couldn't be contained, spilling out over her, manifesting in speech and action. For just a moment she allowed herself the privilege of being a woman scorned and couldn't regret it more. There are rivers of regret, great wide oceans of regret.

Want can color the world all sorts of interesting and misleading colors and Pepper admits she was dazzled, taken in by the possibility of a life with that man. And now, after feverish hope and intoxicating belief she is Dorothy, back in Kansas, back in black and white after dreaming in Technicolor. She feels every year of her life acutely this morning. She won't pout, won't cry—in public, at least.

She contemplates briefly as she walks, her shoes echoing noisily in the expansive space, waiting another six months then asking Mr. Brennan if there were any openings in the New York office. The weather would kill her, undoubtedly, but she could see herself being successful there, lost amongst the vibrant, writhing throng of the big city. A place tailor made for reinvention; who knew here there, and furthermore, who really cared? It may, in fact, be just the thing for her, distance and closure all at once. She's never going to get a chance here, not with him so close.

And though she imagines this last separation, the final disseverance would undo her entirely; it would give her a chance to build herself up again, start from the ground up. How she thought she could start over on such unstable ground, every square inch riddled with the ghosts of memory? She can't have him, she reminds herself bitterly, so why torture herself with the constant specter of his presence?

It is almost entirely settled in her mind by the time she reaches her floor, almost written in stone by the time her feet leave the tiled atrium and hit the carpeted hallway before her desk. A few months to further establish her usefulness here then she'll broach the subject of transfer to New York. She may even use Deirdre to this effect. She promised herself she wouldn't after she got the job; it'd be wildly unprofessional and she didn't want to get the reputation as the woman who made her way through the professional world on connections and not the quality of her work and the extent of her abilities. This would be the means to an end and that alone; it wouldn't be like abusing the connection would even be possible in New York. Starting over isn't a choice at this point; it's imperative and surprisingly, Pepper finds herself willing to burn a few bridges to get what she wants.

Pepper is always calmed by a good, well organized plan and as she settles her purse atop her desk she feels very well comforted indeed. Make peace with Tony and cut ties with her old life. It's perfect, or as perfect as abandoning a sinking ship can be.

Her good mood doesn't last.

Mr. Brennan pokes a meaty shoulder out from his office and gruffly requests her presence inside. He seemed summoned by the sound of her possessions hitting her desk top, as though he'd been specifically awaiting her arrival. He's never requested her presence in his office before, nor has he ever been in the office this early before. The newness of the action triggers a warning bell within her. She follows him within with no small amount of trepidation.

"Close the door, Virginia."

As she moves to close the heavy door, she happens to glance at Yvonne across the hallway and even at the distance her smirk is evident.

Shit.

* * *

It only takes five three and a half minutes.

A hot, sick welling of humiliation emanates from deep with her chest, a liquid, violent, churning thing that lives and breathes and eats away at her. She doesn't say anything, can't say anything, and so only the click of Mr. Brennan's office door shutting behind her as she leaves and the strange shock of seeing a pockmarked security guard already present, waiting for her to collect her things and escort her off the premises herald the unexpected and lamentable milestone: the first time Virginia Potts has ever been fired. Ever.

Yvonne, it seems, cannot help herself, and walks across the hall to offer Pepper an empty copy paper box in which to place her belongings. Pepper wordlessly accepts. In goes her umbrella plant and the framed picture of her mother. She doesn't really have much of herself here after all, she realizes. She doesn't know where she's left herself, where to put herself anymore.

Strangely she doesn't feel any sadness. She doesn't feel regret. At first she feels nothing. As she reaches for the her spare change jar, almost forgotten with how neatly it is tucked behind her computer monitor, she knocks it clean off the table and thinks for a moment that she might actually lose herself. The security guard looks on impassively. She wants to break something else. She lowers herself awkwardly to her hands and knees and picks up broken glass, nickels, dimes and pennies. Yvonne is silent as she files her nails, pretending not to watch, but not quite managing to hide her satisfaction as well as she conceals her notice. Pepper wants to shout, scream herself horse. But she doesn't. She picks up every last cent, deposits the broken glass of her former change jar into the trash, and passively informs the security guard that he may want to alert the building's janitorial staff about shards of glass that may still linger in the industrial beige carpeting.

And then, all that is left of this disaster is the long, shameful walk down the hallway.

Deirdre's voice catches her before she reaches the atrium. "Pepper! Pepper, wait!"

It takes a moment to process.

She turns around slowly, but everything feels strange, like she's swimming in molasses. She's fixated on the strength of the emotion she feels at being fired. She shouldn't be upset. She feels utterly ridiculous for feeling anything but grateful for the separation. It was a shit job and a demeaning waste of her time. But it was something, wasn't it? God help her, it was something. After she'd left Tony, she lost everything. Her self-respect, her career, and the biggest, best, most aggravating part of her life; the man himself. But the shit job was something. Not much, but a little bit of something. Forward momentum, a change to get reoriented, get her bearings on life, and get back onto her feet. Pepper Potts doesn't know which way is up. Pepper Potts doesn't know where she is.

Oh, god. She can't breathe. She can't breathe. She can't—

"Jesus Christ, Pepper. Come on!"

Deirdre links arms with her and tugs her down the hallway, her eyes shooting daggers at the hapless security guard who seems to know better than to follow them.

They are out of building and across the street hurrying to the parking structure two blocks down where Deirdre has parked her car when Pepper stops allowing her friend to lead her and speaks.  
"Dee—what was that? What _was_ that?"

Deirdre has the grace to look ashamed.

"I tried to talk him out of it, I really did, Pep. I did. But you know Eugene, when it comes to business," she laughs a little, but somehow Pepper fails to see the humor in the situation and the sound falls flat on her ears. Deirdre starts again, but her speech is faltering and awkward, unsure how to proceed

"He got a call last night—a call from Tony Stark. Some deal or another, I don't know. I should have asked. He's a real dick, I don't care how handsome he is."

The air carves straight from Pepper's lungs in a rush.

"Tony?"

She pauses, unable to wrap her mind around the concept.

"Tony had me fired?"

Deirdre only nods and repeats her earlier affirmation.

"A real dick."

Deirdre re-takes Pepper's arm and drags her down the sidewalk. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

* * *

She's always prided herself on her industriousness, her adaptability, her determination to rise from every situation and all of her effort, all of her work ethic, everything last bit of clawing and scraping to earn a bit of respect is gone on the whim of some petulant man-child.

She's sick with disappointment. She knows he's better than this. She knows it just like she knows she's done nothing to deserve this. Her sorrow for him takes the fight out of her for a moment.

The events that have transpired in the course of a day (transpiring since the devastation of two little words) are so beyond her, so utterly unfathomable that she finds herself at a loss to describe the texture of her own heart. This latest cruelty, a sharp and devastating retaliation, so unlike the slow ache of exclusion she is accustomed to, stacked upon so many other swift changes and shifts in the natural order of things---it's too much. It seems her heart is not made for such; it cannot continue in such extremity.

Deirdre drives her home but she barely registers the journey, limp and pale, slouched despondently against the plush interior of her friend's car. Deirdre parks the car and follows her up the stairs and into the apartment, settles her on the couch, utterly ignoring Pepper's soft insistence that she'd rather be alone right now. Deirdre retreats to the kitchen and bangs cupboard doors raucously open and shut before returning with two long-stemmed wine glasses and a moderately expensive old vine zinfandel Pepper had been saving for a special occasion. A glass is forced into Pepper's hand and she obediently takes a small sip. Deirdre settles herself into the chair opposite to where she is sitting and urges her on several occasions with a comically serious expression on her face to "let it all out". When this suggestion proves fruitless, she nimbly switches tactics; attempting to goad Pepper into frenzy by uttering every slur against Tony Stark she can think of. In this application, Deirdre proves herself an agile and inventive operator, twisting a tapestry of rumor, profanity and blatant slander with the unnatural grace of a true savant. But try as she might, she cannot summon the tears or impassioned diatribe she had so hoped for. Pepper's weariness has settled in her into the very marrow of her bones, and though she is aware of Deidre's well intentioned, but otherwise utterly off base attempts to comfort her, she doesn't possess the energy to humor her, which seems to be the foundation of their friendship. Pepper unresponsive, placid demeanor seems to utterly unhinge her friend who is unequipped to synthesize Pepper's unfathomable reaction and strange pallor. Within ten minutes Deirdre is tripping over herself to get to the door.

(That night when Deirdre describes Pepper's unfathomable despondency to her husband, she uses words like 'weird' and 'creepy'. 'Lifeless eyes. Like a doll's eyes,' she intones lowly, doing her best Robert Shaw impression. Her husband only snorts in response.)

Pepper doesn't blame her. In fact, she barely even notices she's left.

She rouses herself from the living room after a long, empty silence and retreats to the bedroom, undressing mechanically, her mind a thousand miles away in some white and soundless place.

She's asleep as soon as she hits the mattress.

She doesn't dream.

* * *

The morning is a different animal entirely. As she rises, she takes careful note. She still feels tired, weary and aching. But unlike the evening previous, she is alert; no longer trapped in the misty haze of her own delirium. She dons a robe and walks barefoot into the kitchen. The tile is so cold under her that it almost stings the bottoms of her feet. She puts on the kettle and slices bread for toast. It is any other day. She glances at the digital clock set into the controls above the range of the stove and does her very best to suppress the rising and irrational panic that arises within the very core of her when she learns it is well past 11:00am. Pepper cannot remember once in recent memory that she has slept past 6:00am. She wants to cry for a brief moment, wants to scream and shake things, and wants to go running until she collapses. But, Pepper is Pepper and she doesn't do any of these things. She swallows it all like a ball of thorns, lets it sit in her stomach, tearing at her when she moves too sharply. She lets her tea steep and butters her toast liberally. She sits at the kitchen table until her toast is crumbs left on the table and plate and all that remains of her tea is a few stray leaves, wet and heavy at the bottom of her cup. She chews and sips and thinks very hard about what a mess she and Tony Stark made of two little words (I quit.)

She postulates helplessly at the table, alone amongst her crumbs and stray tea leaves, that if they made such a mess of two words (I quit.) what on earth made her think they'd ever be able to make sense of three?

(I love you.)

Something has to change. Not the limbo they've been listlessly occupying, both too proud or stupid or afraid to make it better. In fact, Tony has just made everything a thousand times worse, exponentially worse than it was a day ago. With that, she remembers her anger, and it takes hold of her cold toes and fingers, warms her with terrible purpose.

Today, Pepper Potts storms the castle and no matter the outcome (she's going to _kill_ him) it ends today, this restless stasis. She doesn't want to go back, she doesn't know how to move forward, so maybe the best solution is to abandon her calculations, her careful, practical movement through life and jump blindly, trusting herself and her resolve enough to know that whatever happens after this, it at least won't the same.

Today is the day she goes to war.

The click of the apartment door behind her echoes a finality she's not sure she really understands.

* * *

Tony doesn't answer the door. Melanie does, or when she isn't around, Jarvis has the honors, which creates some difficulty in the latter case for those who have never been to the house before. However well mannered and impeccably polite the AI system is, a disembodied voice is never particularly comforting. Melanie has the day off, so he absently snaps at Jarvis when he is informed there is someone at the door.

"Just let them in,"

"You'll want to get the door yourself, Mr. Stark."

He looks up from his drafting table.  
"What, buddy? Bum knee?"

"It's Ms. Potts."

He's up the stairs two at a time and nearly eats it when his foot catches the corner of a rug in the foyer. He didn't expect her so soon, but here she is and things are going to be okay again—he flings the door open wide, a cheeky greeting ready on his lips. Playful banter, light flirtation, the warmth of her smile, the graceful curve of her back, he's ready for it all.

He's not prepared for what he sees in front of him, a few steps down from eye level.

Her fine little shoulders are squared, her jaw set firmly, and her hands clenched lightly at her sides. She stares at him with hard eyes for a long uncomfortable second before she purses her lips and hisses, "You _asshole,_" half between her teeth, half from deep recess of her chest.

"Pepper, I—"

"You—you—_dick _!" Her voice rises tremulously, edging on the precipice of hysteria, eyes wide and a little bit crazed. He fights the urge to take a step backwards. Even so, he feels himself wither a little under her murderous gaze.

"Listen—"

She interrupts a second time.

"When have I ever, _**ever**_ been anything less than a friend to you?"

"Shit," he breaths slowly, but stops himself from going further. He doesn't know what to say to her. He examines the door frame for a moment, looks away and then back again. He is suddenly painfully aware that she is bracing herself against the railing on the steps up to his front door, her wan face turned up to meet his searching look. The late morning sunshine glints on her hair.

He clears his throat.

"Do you want to come inside?

She nods jerkily and he turns quickly and walks to the living room without waiting to see if she follows him. She does.

They sit. He offers her something to drink, but she declines and fetches a red aluminum water bottle out her purse and takes a long swallow. When she speaks, it seems sudden and too loud for the quiet room.

"You got me fired, Tony."

Tony does his best to look contrite. Clever Miss Potts, of course you found out. The ruse is up. He makes a silent vow to never, ever, under any circumstance, ever underestimate her again. A disastrous oversight, but there isn't any time for new calculations. Still, he can't help but be curious.

"Dare I ask how you found out?"

She looks at him sidelong and takes another sip from her water bottle.

"I know his wife," she pauses then clarifies unnecessarily, "Mr. Brennan's wife, Deirdre. I know her. We belong to the same running group. She got me the job in the first place, actually. I guess you didn't know that."

"Well, no. Clearly."

"Stop stalling." Pepper puts the water bottle back in her purse and looks him full in the face for the first time since they've come inside the house.

"I needed—well, I needed to get your attention."

It's the truth of the matter, but she doesn't look pleased by it. In fact, quite the opposite. Pepper's eyes widen and she turns a very interesting shade of red, but save for these two tells, she is otherwise still and silent. Calm as a cucumber.

Tony holds his breath.

In a moment, Pepper speaks; slowly with unnaturally even cadence, each word carefully enunciated as if it cost her some great price to utter them.

"Okay. Okay—you have my complete and undivided attention," she pauses and Tony cannot decipher the look she gives him, except to describe it as 'pointed' and 'forceful'.

"What _exactly_ did you so desperately want to say to me?"

Tony half expects tumbleweed to blow across the room. At opposite ends of the couch they are miles away from one another and he wants more than anything to stop talking (a first?) and close the distance between them, breath in the fragrance of her hair, hold her fair and fevered cheek against his own and just shut up for a moment. Drink in her presence and put a hold on all this shame, fear and the looming apparition of her probable rejection (immanent rejection, his mind inserts pessimistically). But he cannot move her without moving mountains, cannot shake the steel from her spine or wash away the firm resolve from her pale eyes.

He sighs. Pepper Potts _in theory_ was so much easier than the real, flesh and blood woman sitting before him, expectant and irrational. Pepper Potts _in practice_ was a whole other can of worms.

He voices the first real, true thought that comes to his head, often forgetting that the world around him isn't privy to his mile-a-minute inner monologue and cannot fathom the distance from point a to point b when it takes place entirely in his mind.  
"We're too old for this," he sighs and Pepper's sharp, unbidden bark of laughter almost startles him right off his end of the couch. He looks at her in wonder and under his gaze her expression softens ever so slightly.

"We really, _really _are," she pauses for effect. "You especially."

* * *

I realize after waiting so long for a new chapter, I cut this one of in a rather lame, chicken-shit sort of way. Sorry! This chapter was getting out of control long and it simply had to be done. Fortunately the majority of the thrilling conclusion is already put to paper and the only thing that should keep a new chapter from you in the next week or so is some hesitation regarding the epilogue. I promised I'd finish and so I am. If I can't finish this, I'll never be able to finish my non-existent, hypothetical novel that may or may not one day exist some time in the very distant future, if at all. :)

I missed you all! I received, randomly two reviews in the last couple of days. To these people, I suspect you have some sort of thrilling foresight, a modern day Nostradamus, prophets for a new age! To everyone else who gave me reviews and love and whom I shamelessly mistreated by my lack of ability to deliver, I also would like to mention that I wuv you, too.

In conclusion, I am alive. Here is a chapter. I am going to finish this if it kills me. (It might. Like pulling teeth, this chapter!)

Contritely,

E.M. Stevens


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